


Sparks Fly

by ComeAlongPond14



Series: Sparks verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dom!Sherlock, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, M/M, Other, Soulmates, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU] Where everyone is a Dom or a sub, AND everyone has a designated soulmate. As in, when you meet them, you could never want someone else. </p><p>Sherlock is a Dom with absolutely NO interest in finding his mate. And then he meets John, who is his mate and has been waiting years for him. But Sherlock refuses to do this. John is crushed, and sets himself to proving that he can be the sub sherlock needs; after all, they're meant for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On My Guard (For the Rest of the World)

**Author's Note:**

> All new story! Really hope it gets as much love as "Stripped" did, you guys are AMAZING. I am really excited about this one--I'm testing my hand at proper angst.
> 
> Story title is from the song by the same name by Taylor Swift, and most chapter titles will come from there as well (though I don't think I found 17 good phrases...may need to pull from my soundtrack XD).

When people first learn about their soulmates, they react in a variety of ways. Some get scared, afraid they could never measure up to whatever fantasy their partner will have formed by the time they actually meet.

Some get angry, feeling as though destiny has taken all the thrill out of it; there’s not much excitement if you know just by looking into someone’s eyes that they are, or aren’t, the one you’ll spend your life with. But it isn’t as if you can’t date--you’re free to have an extensive and adventurous love life.

There’s just the little detail that when you meet your soulmate...well, after that, you won’t ever want anyone else, as long as your mate lives.

For plenty of people, that is thrilling enough, itself. You can spend years waiting and looking and wondering, and then it’s finally your turn. You find him or her, and you spend the rest of your life learning how to love and be loved by your perfect mate.

Ever since John Watson had learned about soulmates in primary school, he’d been the third type. He looked forward to meeting the person who was supposed to be perfectly compatible to him in every way. It was hard to imagine. But he saw so many couples who fit so well--whether they were properly in love, or simply content in their “rightness” together. He hoped he’d get to actually fall in love. He wanted to be that for his partner.

He had not been afraid to come out to his parents as gay when he hit adolescence, because it was hardly uncommon, and society had long since gotten over it. Besides, when fate sealed the deal, you couldn’t really hide who you were, right? You could stay in the closet till the day you met your mate, but when two people’s whole world suddenly flipped upside and became focused on each other, everyone around them could see it. And if they were the same gender, well, that was that. Who cared, if you were with the right one?

The one surprise he did have for them was his designation. You didn’t find out who your soulmate was until the day you met them and the sparks flew, but you knew when you hit puberty whether you were a Dominant or a Submissive. That was down to simple biology. John had known plenty of kids who were even shocked themselves when they got their marks. A little open arrow, like a triangle missing one line, that either pointed up towards the fingers or down towards the elbow; when a child entered adolescence, it appeared on the appropriate wrist (left for Dominant, right for Submissive).

John had known for a year or so already, had sensed it in the latent instincts and desires that began to take shape as he passed his 11th and 12th birthdays...and finally, the day came, when he came down and showed his parents the downward arrow on his right wrist.

They were surprised, but not disappointed; he knew they were proud of him no matter what, and the whole family had all celebrated--even Harry had come home from boarding school, along with her sub and soulmate Clara, who she’d met at her all-girls’ school. John knew now that everyone was going to be waiting to hear that he’d found HIM, the magically perfect man for him.

He was waiting, too.

He just hadn’t expected to be waiting so long.

He passed through secondary school and got through uni, with no moments of epiphany. He did date, mostly just to experience a healthy social life and get to meet people, but he wasn’t interested in meaningless hookups with guys that knew as well as he did that it wasn’t going to last. He wanted to find his soulmate.

He finished his medical degree when he was just 24, mostly because he’d thrown himself into his studies in the absence of, well, a sex life. He didn’t mind as much anymore, though. The longer he went without meeting his Dom, the more accomplished he felt the need to become, somehow seeking to make proud a man he had never even met.

It wasn’t until his parents were killed in an unexpected car crash that his life slowed down a bit. He returned to London for the funeral, and discovered that Harry was drinking heavily, more than she’d let on. She and Clara were on thin ice, trapped by their bond but unable to work past their domestic issues. So, he stayed in the city. He worked odd jobs at local clinics, struggled to pay rent on a lousy bedsit, and fought almost daily with a stubbornly in-denial Harry.

And then his life leapt to high speed in a single afternoon.

He’d met up with an old uni friend for coffee, deciding that if he was going to live in town, he may as well rebuild his old relationships. Mike Stamford was a good-natured sub, working in the same teaching hospital where they’d trained together, happily married to a Dominant nurse who worked upstairs. They chatted about his students, his wife, and their hopes for kids, before Mike seemed to find the courage to ask where John was living at. It was obvious he was looking to find out if he’d met his mate, but the answer was hardly a mystery.

“Can barely afford London,” John admitted, a little more wearily than he’d intended. “But I can’t skip out on Harry. She’s...not well.”

Mike squinted at him through his glasses, looking genuinely concerned. “Could always get a flatshare or something, until...you know...”

John’s mouth quirked up sardonically at the awkward reference to the “eventual” day when he could live with his Dom--who’d hopefully have the money to take him in.

“Yeah, well,” he said, taking pity on Mike in the brief, vaguely uncomfortable pause, “I’m an unattached sub with my life stuck in a holding pattern. Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike chuckled at that, which made John glance at him curiously. “What?”

The shorter man smirked slightly. “Well, you’re the second person to say that to me, today.”

That certainly piqued his curiosity. John raised an eyebrow. “Who was the first?”

* * *

The lab in the basement of St. Bart’s teaching hospital had changed immensely since John’s days as a medical student. It felt so much more sterile and mechanical. It was unusually quiet, too, no students or orderlies shuffling about running their tests. There was only one person in the large white room, a man in a simple dark suit, hunched over a microscope at the far end of the bench nearest the wall.

Mike led the way in, moving with more confidence than most subs possessed, since he both worked there and had the fortune of being in his soulmate bond. John envied the certainty with which he strode in, stopping to lean against the counter, glancing back at John with a small smile before returning his attention to the stranger.

John hummed softly as he followed Mike in, wanting to seem more at ease than he felt--he couldn’t help it, really, being an unattached sub left him a little more vulnerable than he liked. And he’d have to let Mike down, this time; the other man was clearly a very strong Dom, no cuff on his slightly-exposed left wrist--and therefore not a wise bet for a flatmate.

Trying to mask his currently simmering feelings of unease, John forced a smile at Mike. “Bit different from my day.” Mike chuckled again.

At John’s words, the stranger raised his head. Dark curls of hair fell across his face, briefly shadowing his eyes, but nothing could have hidden them from John. Immediately he felt frozen, held in place by the laser-like ferocity of that ice-like glasz gaze.

So this is what it felt like to find your soulmate.

The thought rattled through John’s mind, and his mouth fell open in a silent gasp as he realized their truth. A jolt like electricity surged through him, and he knew the other man felt it as well; his back stiffened, and his hand dropped from the microscope as he straightened, his eyes scouring John with a heat that seemed to burn through him and leave him smouldering in its wake.

Then he spoke, and though John was instantly more painfully turned on than he’d ever been in his life just from the sound of his voice, the words were not what he had expected.

“Surgeon or general practitioner?”

There was an unnecessarily long silence, as John processed the question. Then he frowned. “Sorry?”

The stranger stood, eyes fixed on him with a disconcerting focus, but with none of the warmth John might have hoped for, if his thoughts had been even remotely coherent. “Surgeon, or general practitioner?”

Disbelief was John’s strongest reaction, but he tried to hold that in check, having no idea who this man was--beyond the crippling bit where he was his fucking soulmate and why were they talking, bloody hell they should be--

“General practitioner,” he said, his voice raspier than he’d expected. “How did you--?”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” He cut John off effortlessly, as though his words were unimportant. And as indignant as that made John, the sub in him forbade him to backtalk his own Dom. His mouth snapped shut, though he knew his eyes were blazing. The Dom glanced at him briefly, noting this, but not acknowledging it.

Mike frowned, patting his pocket. “Sorry, wrong coat,” he muttered, and John could tell he was unaware of the deeper tension in the room. Of course; he’d hardly realize the connection that John was on fire with and that his mate seemed to be ignoring completely.

The instinct to please won over his frustration, despite his attempt to fight it. “Here, use mine,” he said tensely, offering his mobile.

Those piercing eyes, swirling with so many different colors, rested on him for a few seconds before darting to the phone in his extended hand. “Thank you,” he said simply, accepting it and opening a new text with a flourish. John felt winded, unable to grasp what was happening.

“How do you feel about the violin?” The question was so out of the blue, John took another long moment to remember it’s meaning. “Sorry, what?” he asked blankly.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking.” The man’s voice had not changed from its firm, authoritative indifference, and John was beginning to feel real anger simmering inside him, combatting the arousal that the Dom’s voice inspired. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end; would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The change in direction was giving him vertigo. “What?” John repeated, utterly lost.

His mate’s eyes flickered to him again, still devoid of any warmth. “I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend who’s clearly an out-of-work medical professional needing accommodation...wasn’t a difficult leap.”

John felt as though his stomach was simultaneously melting to mush and turning to stone within him. “But you’re--we’re--” His face flushed, unable to put it into words.

Eyes blue as ice yet green as sea glass pierced through him, stilling him with the same authority as if the Dom had spoken the command. “You are about to refer to the societal norm for soulmates to immediately commit to a bond with one another, beginning a life-long intimate relationship without any prior interaction.” He ignored the surprised sound that Mike made when he connected the dots. “I am absolutely and most-assuredly not looking for that. I am, however, looking for someone to split the rent with. Got my eye on a nice little place in central London; together we ought to be be able to afford it. We can meet there tomorrow evening, say seven o-clock.”

Abruptly he turned away, tugging on a handsome blue peacoat that drew John’s eyes appreciatively over his figure before his eyes snapped back to that still emotionless expression. After wrapping a scarf swiftly around his neck, the Dom spared one fleeting smile in John’s direction. “Sorry, I’ve got to dash, think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Ignoring the intense spike of arousal that the mention of a riding crop--sweet God, of course his soulmate, _his_  Dom, owned a riding crop--sent crashing through him, John turned to follow his movements, his shoulders stiff. “Is that it?” he asked, his voice sharp.

The Dom paused, looking back at him appraisingly. “Is that what?” he asked, a touch coolly.

John’s heart spluttered and dropped into his toes at the implication of disappointment in his Dominant’s tone; despite how bizarrely their first meeting seemed to be going, he wanted so desperately to please him. “I--you--we can’t just ignore the bond. You’re my--my mate.” The word came out like a question, and John clenched his jaw. “You’re acting like that means nothing, and now we’re just going to go look at a flat?”

The man raised one perfect eyebrow. “Problem?”

John’s voice almost cracked. “I--I don’t know a thing about you--you’re supposed to be--you’re my Dom--” Again, again said like a question, he needed to get this under control. “--you don’t...seem to want--I mean, we’re meant to be--I don’t even know your name!” As though that were the biggest complication in this conversation.

The other man drew himself upright, reinforcing his taller height and commanding presence. He regarded John with a clinical sort of interest, as though he were an interesting specimen being examined.

“I know you’re a medical doctor, recently returned to London due to what I imagine was a tragic event of a personal nature--perhaps the loss of a family member...two? Parents, then, I expect. I know you have a brother who needs help, and you’re struggling over how to handle him--you don’t approve of him--possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he’s having trouble with his marriage. I know you’re a submissive with an iron-clad sense of control, very steady--you could have considered surgery, you know. But instead you’re trying to make ends meet, waiting for an encounter that you’ve been raised to believe will change everything, and make your life mystically better.”

He turned away suddenly, making John catch his breath a little as he pulled the lab door open, then paused, turning back toward John. “I apologize if I fall short of your expectations for the Dom you wanted to find, waiting to claim you with an enthusiasm to match your own. I have no interest in a bond of that nature or in any such intimate relationship, and most likely never will, which makes me question what ‘fate’ could have been thinking, pairing us together. I am, however, in need of that flatmate, so if you are interested, the address is 221, B, Baker Street.”

He half turned away again, then paused, a sinful smile flickering across his face, making John’s whole body tighten with a longing he did not want to even look at right now. “And the name is Sherlock Holmes.” With a saucy little wink that did nothing to help his now-crushed submissive, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the lab.

John waited the five or so seconds it took to hear the footsteps recede and the door to the stairwell creak, before he sank to his knees and let himself shatter, a sound of utter heartbreak tearing from him as the tears began to flow.

* * *

In the stairwell, Sherlock Holmes paused, pulling his gloves from his pocket and tugging them on. As he did, he froze, his well-trained senses catching a sound that he did not want to hear, did not want to acknowledge: the sound of a man crying. It was a terrible sound; a submissive in distress, a heart left abandoned when it most needed the guiding hand of the mate it was meant to be able to depend on.

His jaw tightened and he dropped his head, eyes squeezing tightly shut against the unwelcome tug he felt, the urge to return and console this man, HIS submissive, whose wide blue eyes had pierced through him and left him feeling an overwhelming need to claim, to protect, to own. The knowledge that it was his own words, his dismissal and abrupt abandonment at such a crucial moment--they’d both just found their fucking soulmate, after all--that had the man weeping so, the sound of it echoing from the lab, down the hallway and into the stairwell, made his stomach clench with a violently unwanted pain.

He had sworn when he was ten years old that he would not play this game, would not let society dictate whether or not he ever wasted his time on sentiment. And the more immersed he’d become in the world of mystery and crime-solving, a pursuit he found himself almost indecently suited for, the more he’d known he could not risk letting someone in, not even if “fate” claimed they were meant for each other. He could not indulge.

He’d honestly begun to believe, at 30 years old, that he had succeeded, or that fate would be kind--that while he was a Dominant (after all, you could hardly NOT be designated one way or the other), he would not have to break some poor submissive bastard’s heart with his rejection.

But no. The door had opened and he’d felt the air shift. He had refused to look away from his test, unwilling to examine the uneasy twinge he’d felt tighten in his chest...and then the sub had spoken.

His voice called out to every silenced and ignored cry of Sherlock’s subconscious, urging him to step up, to claim to take to own to make the man his--

He slammed his fist into the wall of the stairwell, a snarl ripping from him. This was not going to happen. He could not allow it. Perhaps he couldn’t agree to the flatshare. Not with a mate he did not want to claim.

The door creaked, and he growled out an irritable breath at the submissive scent of Mike Stamford, the happily-mated man approaching him cautiously, hands raised in supplication.

“What,” he said tersely, knowing Mike wouldn’t leave his weeping companion willingly.

Mike’s voice was faint. “You...you’re just going to leave him there?”

Sherlock bared his teeth, though he kept that from Mike’s line of sight. “What do you want me to do? I’m not what he needs.”

Mike coughed awkwardly. “Well....obviously, you are, Sherlock--”

“No,” he said shortly, turning to glare at the shorter man. “This is--this can’t happen. I’ll--figure it out. If he shows up tomorrow, I’ll work something out.”

Mike let out a long breath. “You should--at least talk to Mycroft, ask him for advice?”

“No!” Sherlock said again, his voice more tight with pain than he would ever admit. “I don’t...I just...I’ll have to work something out. I’ll think of something, Mike. Just...go back to your friend.”

Mike looked like he was wrestling with something, half turning away before he set his jaw and said curtly, “It’s John, by the way. His name. Your sub, your...your mate. His name is John. John Watson.”

The door creaked again as Mike returned to the lab, and Sherlock sank back against the wall, catching his breath--before he pushed himself up, running up the stairs two at a time, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his-- _his his his his_ no _his his his_ no _! his his YES! NO! his_ MATE--soulmate, John Watson.


	2. Like A Full-On Rainstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The older, slightly calmer Holmes steps in.

John had gotten himself more or less under control during the few moments that Mike was out of the room, no doubt rushing to confront the Dom about his abrupt dismissal. It didn’t matter to John. He let a final few choked sobs escape from him, and then he took a deep breath and held it, waiting through the slight tremors that ran through him until he felt his body calm down.

Once he was sure that he would not burst out crying again, he pulled himself to his feet, pausing to get his bearings. He heard Mike re-enter the lab, and he swiped his hands quickly over his face, officially getting himself together.

Before the other sub could speak, he answered the obvious question. “I’m alright, Mike. Or I will be, anyway. Um, do you mind--I’m going to walk home alone, alright?”

Mike’s voice was far too soft, too kind, not nearly the kind of hardness John needed to feel right now. “Right...of course, mate, whatever you need. Call me, soon?”

John made a noncommittal noise in reply, leaving as quickly as he could without openly running. Up the stairs--shit, he could bloody smell his mate, how was that fair? His scent was already so familiar, like it was meant to be part of John’s own--down the hall, out of a side exit, into the clean--well, no, hardly clean, but at least it didn’t smell like HIM--London air.

John paused, sinking back against the brick wall, chest heaving slightly as he tried to gather his wits. All he knew was that he needed to be home, where he could curl rightly into a ball on his ratty little cot and let himself shake and cry and be in pain.

Sod walking. He hailed a cab, barely choking out the address that would apparently be permanent, since he was clearly not getting a fucking home with his bloody soulmate. When he reached his bedsit, John stumbled inside, too intent on getting to his damn bed to notice the CCTV camera on the street corner, swiveling off of its normal circuit to face his doorway, the winking black lens fixed on him as he disappeared through the door.

* * *

It was mid to late afternoon when John emerged again the next day, exhausted despite the hours of unnecessary sleep that he’d forced himself to take, simply to avoid thinking. He knew that this was usually how depression set in, but he really couldn’t be arsed to care. He was only up because Clara had called him to softly mumble about Harry--couldn’t even pretend not to be drunk before bloody noon, could she?--and he hadn’t been able to sleep again.

So now he was roaming blindly, half-thoughts of getting a coffee and walking until he passed out circulating around his brain.

As he turned onto one of the busier main roads, the phone in the call box nearest him started ringing. John didn’t spare it more than a glance, not noticing that the ring cut off abruptly as soon as he walked on past it.

Further along the footpath, a cafe box phone began ringing. John paused at the crosswalk, glancing at it curiously. As he watched, a one of the patrons reached toward the phone, and it stopped mid-ring. John frowned, his curiosity aroused despite the foul mood he was in. The light flickered to green, and he crossed the road.

Not ten feet down that side of the road, another phone box went off. This time John stopped, staring at it for a moment as if it would explain itself. His anger and pain had faded to the back of his mind, and his natural inquisitiveness was kicking in.

The call dropped, and the phone instantly began ringing anew. Without hesitation now, John stepped inside the box, tugging the receiver off its hook. “Hello?”

“Dr. Watson.” The voice was male, low, strangely familiar, but not one he could match to a face. “There is a car about to arrive for you; please get in.”

John blinked several times, utterly bewildered, and then slightly terrified, as a black car slid smoothly to a halt beside him. The driver stepped out swiftly, opening the back door for him, then returned to the wheel. John realizing he was gripping the receiver tightly enough to make his hand ache. “Who is this?” he asked faintly.

There was an undercurrent of clear Dominance in the voice now. “The car, Dr. Watson. You are quite safe, I assure you.”

Somehow he didn’t want to resist anymore. Sucking in a deep breath, John hung up the phone and went to the curb. Glancing around, he exhaled in a rush and climbed in.

* * *

He was deposited outside the Diogenes Club, and promptly herded--that was the only appropriate word for it--through a side hall and into a grand and rather formidable office. It was all dark wood paneling and fine leather and the scent of old books and a family portrait of a clearly wealthy couple and two young men, one of whom looked born to be a bank CEO and the other--

John gasped out loud, winded and completely unprepared for the stab of pain he felt when he saw the painting of what seemed to be a teenage Sherlock Holmes.

His whole body tensed against the grief that washed through him at the sight of those damned beautiful eyes, stunning even in bloody oil paints, he focused instead on the man seated behind the large mahogany desk.

It was instantly obvious that he was the other young man in the painting, though like Sherlock, he was clearly a few decades along. His hair was much shorter and lacked Sherlock’s curls, instead being styled close to the scalp in a rather forced fashion. His face was more lined and time-worn than Sherlock’s, but his eyes were just as shrewd and searching. John swallowed hard, hovering awkwardly near the door, which had been closed decisively behind him.

The older man gestured vaguely to one of the leather armchairs across from him. “Please, Dr. Watson, make yourself comfortable.”

A short, harsh laugh slipped from him. It was the same voice as the phone call, but it lacked the Dominant assertion that could have provoked him to obedience. His anger at the entire past 24 hours surged back. “Who are you?” he asked without preamble.

Those piercing eyes brightened, and an odd expression of...approval...? crossed the man’s face. “I apologize, Dr. Watson. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe you met my younger brother yesterday afternoon.”

John huffed out a breath, absolutely and steadfastly refusing to allow Sherlock’s face to fill his mind--not an easy task with that damn painting right there. “I don’t know if I’d consider it a proper introduction, but yes.”

Mycroft looked grave. “Indeed. I feel, as is often the case, that I must apologize as well for Sherlock’s behavior. It was very wrong of him to leave you so quickly.” He steepled his hands together, studying John intently over them. “Please, do sit, John--may I call you John? We have a rather intimate, if unusual, link between us, after all.”

John’s voice was raw with pain he wasn’t willing to explode with here, in this stifling room. “What, you mean the trivial detail where your brother is my bloody soulmate, and he doesn’t bloody want me?” His voice had risen to a shout by the last few words, and he clenched his jaw shut with a snap, desperate to get his emotions under control.

Only Mycroft’s eyes betrayed a sign that he was feeling anything but neutral interest. “Yes. That...rather significant detail.” He leaned forward, a shadow of regret crossing his features. “John, I am deeply sorry. Truly. My brother is not a cruel man, and I am certain he had no intention of hurting you as he did. In all likelihood, he simply had no idea whatsoever how to handle the situation. After all this time, he had become hopeful that he would never meet--and consequently wound--his soulmate. You must have been quite a shock for him.”

John’s fists clenched, and he strode to the desk, staring Mycroft down. “Me? I’m not the one who defied every--he’s supposed to be--we should have--” He bit the words back, unwilling to expose just how deep the sting went.

Mycroft’s gaze softened further. “I know what that moment is meant to feel like, John. I have passed it, myself.” He raised his left arm, revealing the handsome brown leather cuff that marked him as a claimed Dom. “We took our time--I have a very...volatile professional field, and I did not wish to be a danger to her. But I remember how intense and emotional that instant was, looking into another’s eyes and knowing--just knowing--that you’re done waiting.” Absently he twisted the wedding band that he also wore, hinting that the bond was more personal than most got; he and his sub were married--in love, even--as well. “Sherlock...also lives a dangerous life. One that he has trained himself, I believe, to view as lonely by requisite. Love is dangerous, to his mind.”

John sank into the chair, feeling drained suddenly. He stared at nothing, unable to focus his mind. Mycroft’s voice drifted through the haze to him. “What are you thinking?”

John let out a soft, choked sound, the grief becoming too much to contain. “It’s...it’s not okay. He--what your brother is asking for--this, pretending like we aren’t--we can’t be--it’s not right. He’s asking me to live without even the chance for love.” His voice broke on the last word; this was what he hadn’t wanted to admit out loud. “He’s asking me to live knowing that I can never fall in love, because now I’ve found him, and now he’s everything, but if he won’t...accept me...then I can never move on, not while he’s alive. And God, I can’t wish him dead, can I...I just want him to want...the same thing.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, leaning back. “Yes. You are right, John, that is vastly unfair of him. We shall have to remedy that. I’ll make sure he makes it up to you.” 

Before John could question what the hell that meant, there was a commotion of voices outside. He jumped to his feet, his stomach dropping, as the door swung open and Sherlock himself strode in.

“...croft, it had better be damn well important, I’m on a case--”

He stopped abruptly when he saw John staring at him, and his mouth snapped shut. His eyes jumped to Mycroft, and he sighed, seeming to deflate a little. “Stamford called you?”

Mycroft made an acquiescing humming noise. “He knew you needed the intervention, whether you liked it or not.” The older Holmes brother stood as well, and despite the fact that he was still shorter than Sherlock, John could see that the mated Dom held authority over his sibling. 

“Sherlock,” he said, and his voice held no room for argument. “I know you, and I understand what would have prompted your reaction to meeting John yesterday. I do see it, brother.” The words were said with a gentleness that still did not allow room for resistance. “But you were thoughtless. You were careless in conveying your disinterest in intimacy, essentially rejecting your soulmate--do not cringe like a child, Sherlock, you may resent fate all you like, this is still your duty. You are a Dominant.” These words were spoken with the snap of a cracking whip. “And whether you like it or not, you have a responsibility to provide for your submissive, and to care for his needs and treat him with kindness and authority. Will you renounce your position of leadership out of selfishness?”

Sherlock eyes leapt to meet his brother’s over John’s head, and John was a little shaken by the intensity simmering between the two Doms. Finally, Sherlock bowed his head.

“You are correct. I apologize.” Turning toward John, Sherlock met his gaze fully, and John felt his heart stutter to a stop. Just the focus of Sherlock’s gaze on him warmed him, making him long to earn this beautiful man’s affirmation, to be told he was good, to be kissed in reward for his obedience before being taken roughly--

Fuck. He shut down those thoughts immediately, catching his breath and trying not to let his instinctive arousal show. Just his damn luck that his mate was an unearthly beautiful sod with inherent Dominance practically radiating from him...everything that John had always fantasized about.

Sherlock was gazing at him far more openly than he had the day before. 

“Forgive me, Dr. Watson,” he said, and his voice was melodic and perfect and Christ, John could lose himself in it. “I was far too abrupt with you yesterday, and needlessly cruel in my dismissal of our...roles...in one another’s lives. I should not have treated you that way, especially knowing that you, unlike myself, had been searching for your mate. I should have been kinder.” He paused, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. “I would like to make it up to you, if I may, Dr. Watson.”

“John.” Oh God, that hoarse sound couldn’t be his voice. Well, it obviously was, the way Sherlock blinked rapidly in surprise, and both Doms seemed to draw themselves up, clearly scenting the sudden rush of pheromones as John’s submissive nature responded to its second interaction with his very own Dom. He flushed in embarrassment. “Please. Call me John.”

Sherlock looked utterly confused, and John wondered if it was the rasp in his voice, or the scent of need he must be giving off--why was his mate confused by him?

Mycroft spoke up, sounding remarkably less ruffled--though perhaps it helped that his mate reciprocated his desire, John thought irritably. “Sherlock, the two of you have...much to discuss. Perhaps you should settled the basics, first. For example, you are going to take responsibility for your submissive, regardless of the nature of your...personal relationship with him, correct?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed warningly at his brother. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I will see to it that he is provided for, as is my duty. No need for you to mother him.” Mycroft merely smirked.

Sherlock took a breath, then faced John, meeting his gaze. John might have felt mildly mortified, knowing that his hormones were still producing the scent meant to lure his mate to him, but he suddenly noticed that Sherlock himself had a few symptoms he’d most likely adamantly deny; his pupils were blown wide, his mouth slightly open as he scented his mate, and his stance had widened as he reflexively postured, automatically seeking to impress his submissive.

Sherlock’s voice was also a little rougher. “John,” he said, slowly, as though he were tasting the name. “Would you accompany me to the flat at Baker Street? We can...see if you would be comfortable living there. With me.”

John knew somehow that this was a fork in the road. He could lay down barriers, protect himself from a mate who did not seem to ever plan on bonding with him. But he already knew that that would never happen. He wanted Sherlock, not just because fate said so but because he wanted desperately to be good enough. He was determined to be.

He stood, moving slowly toward Sherlock, allowing his scent to reach the Dom, letting him get familiar with the mixture of need and arousal and loyalty--how that had a scent, John couldn’t say, but he knew it was there--that drifted from his body. He saw the Dom’s hand clench as it slid into the pocket of that damn coat, and he bit back a smile. 

Perhaps he would just have to seduce his soulmate. 

There were worse ways to fall in love. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Normally I'd never make Mycroft straight, I'm sure you can figure out from my previous works who I ship him with, but I need our beloved DI for later, and he has to be less attached. 'Sides, I have a quirky alternative scenario for dear Mycroft. Hope it's as funny to y'all as it was to me!
> 
> 2) I like to keep these canon-parallel scenes as accurate as possible, but in this case, I felt my Mycroft was a bit gentler than canon, especially since he's not wary of John--he wants his brother's soulmate to be cared for. So no camera trickery (aside from the little bit that John didn't notice haha), and no veiled threats. He's trying to be a sweetie, the darling creeper.
> 
> Hope you like! Please comment!


	3. The Kind of Reckless (That Should Send Me Runnin’)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins life at 221B, Baker Street. And our favorite Detective Inspector joins the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but I feel iffy about this chapter. Hopefully it's working for you, dear readers. Also, I don't know if there's a strong preference for my smuttier writing, but I do try to inject a bit of it, as our dear boys struggle with...feelings...and stuff. XD
> 
> Also, the last bit is Sherlock's POV, similar to how chapter one ended. I suspect that will happen regularly. 
> 
> And guuuuuys, I learned how to get italics! Woot!

John had absolutely no idea how long the cab ride to Baker Street was. It could have been mere minutes, or it might have been hours; all he knew was that he was suddenly less than five feet from his soulmate, and the need to press close and let him just _have_ John was overwhelming.

If Sherlock was also feeling the bone-deep need that was radiating from his companion, he was damn good at concealing it. He gazed out the cab window with a distant expression, his gloved fingers tapping absently on his thigh in a silent rhythm. John inhaled slowly, wishing that he were allowed to reach over and take that long hand in his, to explore and study the pale skin he knew was hidden beneath the expensive leather, the muscles and bone structure and sharp lines of Sherlock’s hands.

The cab came to a halt, and John slipped from the vehicle quickly, not trusting himself to not be overly-emotional. Sherlock paid the fare, then joined him on the sidewalk and paused, squinting up at the building in front of them--most likely, John realized with a clenching in his chest, giving him a moment to compose himself.

His eyes settled on their destination. There was a little cafe with the name Speedy’s printed on the maroon awning, and beside it, a black door with gold numbers labeling it as 221.

Sherlock stepped forward, smoothly unlocking the door and angling his body to allow John to enter first. Breath hitching slightly, John moved inside, carefully avoiding brushing against the taller man. If Sherlock noticed the effort he made not to touch, he did not comment.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called out, his deep voice resonating in John’s ears, making his stomach tighten at the dark longing that unfurled through his veins at the sound of it.

A door down the hall opened and a small woman in a worn lavender dress with fluffy grey-blonde curls popped out, wiping her hands on a little white apron as she beamed at the sight of them.

“Sherlock, there you are, dear! You were off so early this morning, I was going to offer you some tea.” John watched in bemusement as Sherlock cracked a wide grin, and the woman gave him an affectionately stern look. “ _Not_ that I’m your housekeeper, mind, but I know you had a rough evening yesterday. I wanted to cheer you up, luv.” Her eyes settled on John. “Who’s this handsome one, then?”

John barely noticed the compliment, having swung his attention to Sherlock at the words “rough evening.” Oh, it was rough for Sherlock, was it, meeting his soulmate only to bloody-well reject him? How bloody _heartbreaking_ for him.

For his part, Sherlock looked appropriately contrite. “Ah, yes, well.” Straightening his shoulders, he seemed to steel himself to seem impenetrable again. “Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. He will be staying with me. Indefinitely.”

Surprise flashed across Mrs. Hudson’s face, but her expression smoothed out again almost immediately. “Of course, dear. Will you be needing the upstairs room, then?”

John’s whole body tensed instantly, wondering what he could possibly say to that. His instincts were still on fire, needing so much for Sherlock to just fucking touch him, and the urge to lash out, to snarl that no, he damn well did not need his own room, was almost impossible to suppress. He bit down on his tongue, tasting blood as he focused on the unpleasant edge of dull pain.

“Yes, please.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, almost gentle, as though he knew the agony that his answer sent flooding through the man at his side--but he did not retract the words. Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand, somehow, because she didn’t say anything, just darted back to her own flat to grab the keys.

Sherlock’s voice was hesitant. “John, listen--”

“Not right now, please,” John whispered, hearing the raw pain that he was doing his best to pretend away. He coughed hard, clearing his throat, and forced steadiness back into his tone, thank God. “I mean, hm. Please, no instructions or anything that I will feel obligated to obey, please...Sherlock.” It stung his heart to say his name. “Just--not yet.”

He felt the taller man lean closer, then away, as though unsure how close he should be right now. “I--don’t ever have to give you instruc--”

“Yes, you do.” John breathed deep and harsh between the sentences, working hard to keep his voice level. “You will, because it will be your nature to meet my needs, and surely one that trivial can’t be such a bloody inconvenience--just giving me orders to follow, just...that. I--I’ll just want to help you, Sherlock, to look after you and your home, and whatever I can do. Just let me. Please.”

It sounded so pitiful.

Sherlock’s breathing was slightly ragged. “If it’s what you need. I can...I can give you tasks to perform, yes.”

John huffed irritably. “Can’t even bloody call it what it is, can you? You don’t even want to _have_ a fucking sub--”

Mrs. Hudson reappeared and John fell silent, ignoring the pained look Sherlock gave him, and following their landlady up the flight of stairs. At the top, she stepped aside, allowing him to approach the door marked 221B. Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at him.

“This one is you, dear, Sherlock can show you around.” She held out her hand, and John numbly accepted two keys from her as he felt Sherlock come up behind him on the landing. “There’s the key to the front door, downstairs, and that one is for the flat itself, here. Get yourself settled, luv. If you need anything, I’m just downstairs.” Giving his back a motherly pat, she left them.

Sherlock slid past him, unlocking the door and leading him in.

Entering the flat for the first time, John was instantly torn between clinging to the intense pain he’d carried upstairs with him--and an overwhelming sense of home. It felt so right. Looking around, he felt a funny jolt of something close to grief as he realized it was because it felt so much like Sherlock’s place. The main room was warm and cluttered, all earth tones and stacks of books and newspapers and file folders, a violin and a music stand in the corner, a skull on top of the fireplace, darts sticking haphazardly out of the wall, a neon yellow smiley face painted in bloody spray paint on the opposite end of the room. Riddled with bullet holes. John gave a strangled laugh.

Following his gaze, Sherlock half-smirked. “Don’t worry, the wall had it coming.” Stepping forward, he slowly unwound his scarf, shrugging it and the coat off and hanging them on the coat rack in a careless way that guaranteed their eventual fall to the wood floor.

John snorted, crossing back to the door and adjusting their position--and then instinct kicked in, and he was shuffling around the room, straightening and reordering the stacks of academia-related debris, creating some kind of method to the madness.

Sherlock stood perfectly still, hands thrust into the pockets of his tailored suit pants, watching John curiously. After a few moments of silence, as John moved over to the side of the room with the fireplace and the small dining table, Sherlock stepped forward, surveying the changes he’d made.

John was trying not to watch him, but he couldn’t help tracking the way Sherlock moved, small steps and sweeping stares, studying the pattern he’d applied to the chaos. “You categorized these books according to their series. And the papers by date and author,” Sherlock said, sounding impressed.

John shrugged. “Yes. It will help you find what you need when you’re working.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, turning to follow John’s motions as he continued his tidying. “You don’t actually know what my work is,” he pointed out mildly.

John paused, looking over at him thoughtfully. “No,” he agreed. “I don’t. But I doubt you keep all of this mess just for fun, so whether it’s professional or leisure, it can’t hurt to make it easier to sort through. You recognize the system I’m going by.”

Sherlock just smiled in confirmation. It made John ache inside, longing to point out that only he could slide so effortlessly into Sherlock’s private world like this, so easily begin to meet needs the other man may not have even realized he had--but there was no point in saying it.

As he turned to place a book on top of the right stack, he jumped slightly when he found Sherlock directly behind him, watching him fixedly. He swallowed, making a little gulping noise. “Sherlock--?”

Those glittering eyes--blue like deep winter ice right now--darkened a little, scanning his face as though looking for something. And then just as unexpectedly, he moved away, gazing out the window next to the violin stand, hands still in his pockets.

John felt as though he’d just missed something significant. He had a feeling that Sherlock wasn’t quite as unmoved by John’s presence in his home as he wanted to be. He may have had years to perfect his dismissal of the concept of soulmates, and his disinterest in the existence of his own--but it was an entirely different now that they’d met.

John felt a spark of something that he almost feared to think might be hope. He knew how it worked, when you laid eyes on the person who was destined for you. He’d known since he was 14 what happened, for both partners. Dominant or submissive, your reaction was certain; when you saw him or her, you needed them. You wanted to bring them in, to protect and claim them and make sure the world knew that they were untouchable now, that they were safe and loved and belonged to you.

And even if he resented it for its potential emotional impact on him, Sherlock could not refuse the basic biological mandate that would have triggered as soon as he’d met John’s eyes at St. Bart’s, and that hopefully had given him just as sleepless a night as it had John, because now he had someone who he needed to know was safe and cared for at all times. As John’s Dom, he could not simply tune out the need to possess and protect him.

Could he?

Sherlock had picked the violin up, and John’s breath caught as he began to play, a melody so sweet and melancholy and complex that it cut through his heart like a knife. He paused, gazing at the other man’s back as he swayed along with the notes his nimble fingers produced, head tilted and--John glimpsed his reflection in the window glass--his eyes closed as he wove the music like fabric.

John wasn’t aware of sitting down to listen, but when footsteps thundered up the stairs and someone appeared in the still-open doorway, he came to sitting in the big leather armchair that smelled unmistakably of Sherlock, curled up slightly so that his face was pressed into the scent. He raised his head as the man entered, and as Sherlock stopped playing, turning around to arch an eyebrow, expression clear and open.

“Where?”

John glanced over at him, wondering how he knew what the man was here for, but since he had no idea who he was, he didn’t know if it was actually unusual.

Dragging a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, the newcomer sighed. He wasn’t much older than the two men in the room, but John could see that life had taken a toll on the poor man. His face was too lined, the grey in his hair was premature, and there was a world-weariness in his eyes that--bizarrely--seemed to abate a little as he looked hopefully at Sherlock.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

Sherlock cocked his head again, and John’s breath caught once more in his lungs. There was a brightness he had not yet seen in the man’s glittering eyes, an avid sort of excitement that was both impressive and a little manic. His voice remained utterly controlled, however. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

The older man raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t seem perturbed by Sherlock’s attitude. There was a kind of nervous energy hovering around him, reminding John of the police officers who would come to the clinic he’d worked at, to take down witness statements and victims’ stories. The sad sort of urgency that someone working in a morbid field lived by.

“You know how they never leave notes?” At Sherlock’s muttered acknowledgment, he gave a little half-shrug, as though he knew this would settle the matter. “This one did.”

Sherlock’s demeanor changed, his body angling slightly, toward John, and something tugged at the submissive’s heart. He wondered if Sherlock had even the faintest clue how he was responding to John, how they were connected. He felt the dark-haired man’s excitement rising, felt his curiosity piquing. He frowned, wondering what on earth was going on.

“Will you come?” Salt-and-pepper asked, his voice edged with something a little desperate.

Sherlock frowned, eyes still fixed unseeingly on John. “Who’s on forensics?

“Anderson.”

That got a reaction; Sherlock’s expression twisted with distaste, irritation flashing in his eyes as he glanced swiftly out the window. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

The other man looked exasperated. “Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I need an assistant!” Sherlock shot him an irritable look, and then swung his gaze back to John, who held it steadily. He felt something dark and heady, a need, not unlike the lingering ache of desire he’d been feeling ever since Sherlock had swept into Mycroft’s office and stolen his heart in a twisted, unrequited way.

Perhaps Sherlock’s disinterest in finding his mate was not entirely out of a heartless lack of desire for intimacy. John felt a wave of something like heartbreak--much more real and ugly even than what he’d felt when Sherlock had swept away from him out of the lab at Bart’s--bubbling up to squeeze around his heart. He was beginning to realize something about his Dom, something he really, truly did not want to believe.

Sherlock’s eyes latched onto him with crystalline focus, and John felt an awful sensation like a suppressed sob seal his windpipe closed. He was shaking a little.

The man at the door sounded exhausted. “Will you come?”

Sherlock did not look away from John. “Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

With a swift thanks, the man turned and vanished down the stairs. Sherlock waited for a moment, then strode to where John still sat, hands clenched on his knees. Sherlock stood over him, gazing down in hard silence.

“John. Look at me.”

A direct order. He couldn’t--didn’t want--to disobey his mate. John raised his head, meeting Sherlock’s icy gaze.

The Dom reached out, and a pained, ragged gasp ripped from John as Sherlock cupped his chin, searching his face intently. Whatever he saw must have answered some question, because Sherlock released him with a tight look on his features. He stepped back, and John’s entire body slumped at the sickening sense of loss that the distance between them instantly filled him with.

And then suddenly Sherlock was moving, pulling on his coat and scarf, calling out to tell Mrs. Hudson that he was off. The landlady bustled in, bantering with him as he requested some food for when he returned, repeating with obvious maternal fondness that she wasn’t his housekeeper--John was beginning to see the familial bond that these two had.

As Mrs. Hudson wandered into the kitchen behind where John sat, Sherlock suddenly reappeared in the doorway, tugging on his gloves and studying John. His eyes were rapt and attentive as he gazed at the submissive. “You’re a doctor,” he said slowly, and John blinked a few times, bewildered by the segue.

Sherlock was staring at him with something like fascination; John’s heart began to pound, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Sherlock licked his lips, and if he saw the way that made John’s whole body flex with tension and need, he didn’t acknowledge it, but John was once more quivering with the desire to grab this impossible man and kiss him. His fists clenched more tightly, nails digging into his palms. “Yes,” he replied, resisting the instinct to add “sir.”

“Any good?”

Some professional pride and confidence flared in John’s chest, combatting the urge to surrender to something powerful and beyond himself, which had not abated since Sherlock had appeared in his life. But just for this moment, he seized on that trickle of self-assurance, speaking with genuine satisfaction in his own merits. “Very good.”

Sherlock tilted his head, looking pleased, as though it was a credit to him for John to be skilled. Though in a way, John supposed, it almost was--after all, hadn’t he driven himself so hard to become a doctor--and to gain real field experience--as quickly as possible, on the deeply ingrained need to impress the Dom he hadn’t met yet? It was a common attitude to see a talented sub as the accomplishment of their Dom, while subs of a more domestic nature were just valuable property.

There was a look in Sherlock’s eyes that John didn’t entirely trust; he appeared to be weighing several options as he held John’s gaze. “Put aside the fact that your nature dictates obedience to my will, John...do you truly want to assist me?”

A hot and cold combination of anger, resistance, and agonizing, desperate need swirled through John, and a tiny sound of longing slipped from him. He stood, turning to face Sherlock, his shoulders stiff as he fought the urge to run to the other man, who was utterly still and unreceptive to any such gesture. “Yes,” he said curtly.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with the same manic light they’d had when salt-and-pepper had been there. “Come with me?”

John meant to answer in a way that was affirmative but passive; he meant to show that he could be as calm as Sherlock had the cruelty to be.

His voice cracked slightly, instead. “Oh, God, yes.”

* * *

 _How in the bloody fucking hell did I ever end up here_ , was all that John could think, staring through a now-fractured window, across the gap between the two buildings, through another window with another bullet hole, into a room where he had just shot a man down.

And then his feet were moving, common sense and self-preservation directing his movements as he ran from the building, knowing that he needed to wait for Sherlock somewhere much, much less incriminating.

When Sherlock did come for him, he was standing between the patrol cars, appropriately on the civilian side of the crime scene tape, watching and waiting as his Dom finished speaking to the Detective Inspector--John would have to remember to say Lestrade instead of salt-and-pepper, though at least Sherlock had found his nickname for the DI amusing.

Sherlock approached him slowly, discarding the shock blanket that a medic had forced on him, and stopped in front of John, gazing down at him silently. After the events of the evening, John was certain that Sherlock already knew everything, and would indicate to his sub whether or not they needed to discuss what he’d done.

In a span of roughly six hours, John had watched Sherlock dissect a crime scene with almost psychic accuracy, locate a suitcase that no one had known was missing, provoke a serial killer into coming out of the shadows, dragged John on a wild goose chase across London, and in the midst of all that, taken him on what John couldn’t help but agree with the restaurant owner had certainly been a date, whether or not Sherlock was bloody married to his sodding work (John had been right. These crimes, these cases, were what Sherlock seemed to view as his soulmates. So John did have competition. And he intended to win).

Then his mad Dom had run off to face the lunatic, playing his damn game and nearly swallowing the pill. He was bloody lucky his submissive wasn’t as meek as he’d likely assumed--and that he carried a gun (Really, how could he not? An unclaimed sub of his age needed protection from less civilized, unattached Doms). John had tracked them down, and when he’d realized what a reckless _prick_ his mate was about to be, he’d fired. And then he’d run.

And now he stood quietly, waiting for Sherlock to scold him, praise him, or disregard him for his intervention.

“Good shot.” Sherlock’s voice was so low and sensual, it rippled across John’s skin, making him shudder with want. But he latched onto the words, onto the praise--alright, it wasn’t “good boy” said lazily in bed after a brutally hard shag that made up for years of being without his mate, but it was a start--and cleared his throat, striving for cool practicality as well.

“Yes, must’ve been, through that window.” He said it with an almost-smirk, and he saw the small spark in Sherlock’s eyes; he was teasing his Dom, and it was not being received poorly.

“Well, you’d know,” Sherlock said drily. His gaze flickered around them, checking for eavesdroppers. “You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. You won’t serve time for this, since you were with me, but let’s avoid the mess.”

John swallowed hard, suddenly a little nauseous. “Um. Well, yes, but it--it wouldn’t be enough to have just been here with you, Sherlock.”

Clear-as-water eyes settled on him, and he saw the frustration and tension that flashed through Sherlock, felt it like a brush of calloused fingers against his own consciousness. “In this case, John, it would have been. Lestrade knows that you live with me. He could swing it, even without a legal bond between us.” His gaze swung away. “It’s not relevant now. But you are safe, John.”

The irritation in his voice was reprimand enough, and John dropped his eyes submissively. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Sherlock looked back at him, but John missed the softening in his gaze. Gently nudging John’s arm, he turned toward the street, leading the sub along after him. “Let’s have dinner,” he said quietly, and John relaxed his shoulders, knowing that it was Sherlock’s version of forgiving.

* * *

Two months passed, cases coming and going, Lestrade, and Mycroft, and occasionally Mike Stamford dropping by for tea and conversation and business. John found himself growing fond of Lestrade almost immediately--the DI was kind and compassionate, unjaded despite his work, and able to put up with Sherlock in any of his moods. If anything, the self-labeled “consulting detective” just seemed to make him laugh when he became short-tempered.

He treated John well, too, which was a rare courtesy. He showed no surprise at Sherlock finding his soulmate--Sherlock always became studiously fixated on his violin if Lestrade referenced this, and John was all too aware of the way he was ignored when the topic came up--and he made no comment about John emerging from the upstairs bedroom, clearly separated from Sherlock in areas of intimacy.

That division did wear at John emotionally, but he refused to let it stop his attempts to persuade Sherlock. He threw himself into his role as the submissive: keeping the flat clean, the kitchen stocked, and Sherlock’s mess contained. He got a proper desk in the corner, so that Sherlock’s experiments and paperwork wouldn’t consume their limited table space. Every day, he forced Sherlock to take some time to eat, or to acknowledge his brother if he stopped by. When the morgue technician from Bart’s--a sweet, wide-eyed sub named Molly--would call, John trained Sherlock how to be polite to her, and was rewarded when he saw Molly develop some real confidence, freed from Sherlock’s consistently careless acerbity.

And even though it lit his blood on fire to be in the same room as Sherlock, even if he had to wank himself into exhaustion in the shower every night to thoughts of his Dom--imagining Sherlock grasping him by the hips, forcing him against the wall and pressing into him, hard and hot and needful, longing for Sherlock’s beautiful hands to stroke and tease him until he begged to be claimed over and over--John couldn’t pretend he wasn’t happy simply to be there. Just as he’d known he would, he slipped effortlessly into Sherlock’s life, filling a void that the detective had failed to ever notice was there.

* * *

Had John been watching as much as he was working, he might have noticed the slow shift in Sherlock’s attitude toward him. The detective had built his life to accommodate the overwhelming solitude that he had known since childhood, and he had never expected anything to change or challenge it.

And then John had walked through that door.

On the most primitive level, there was the simple, unavoidable biological response. Of course he had felt the pull, the magnetic awareness of the other man, from the moment their eyes met. When he had left Bart’s, he was plagued by restlessness that lingered and clouded his thoughts until he’d entered Mycroft’s office the next day, irritable from lack of sleep, and had been slapped in the face by the relief that flowed through him when he’d come face to face with John.

And then he’d brought John home. The sense of rightness he’d experienced when the sub had entered his flat--had set straight to work organizing it as if it had always been his place--had been too much. Sherlock had turned to his music to drown out the voice in his head, demanding that he open his arms and embrace his mate.

Lestrade bringing him the fourth “suicide” had been a momentary breath of air, but as soon as he’d swept out of the flat, he hadn’t been able to bear it. He didn’t like leaving John there, tense and uneasy and uncertain if Sherlock actually wanted him there. He was resisting his genetically unbreakable link to the man, but Sherlock could not-- _would_ not--leave him thinking that his very existence was resented. So he had asked him to come.

And his heart had squeezed and cried out as John had followed him with a willingness and loyalty that he longed to see put to much more carnal, physical uses, longed to see him stretched out across Sherlock’s rarely-used bed, writhing in pleasure at Sherlock’s own hand, _needing_ him--

NO.

He was not going down this road.

Every day, he watched his soulmate, his submissive, his John, keeping his house and taking care of him without a seeming conscious thought. 221B became a home, not just a headquarters. When Lestrade began coming over to visit more often than to discuss cases, he was welcomed with tea or beer, occasionally staying to watch telly, laughing and talking with John as if the doctor had always been a part of their lives. Sherlock watched hungrily as the DI--whom he sometimes liked to consider an actual friend--accepted his mate without challenging Sherlock’s rather obvious resistance to the unspoken question of whether they would ever bond.

And when Mycroft came by, now John was there to meet him, to offer tea and chat and make jokes about politics and crime and all the other perfectly normal elements that made their lives so different from “most peoples’.” Sherlock knew his brother liked John, knew that everyone in his life did, and it made his heart ache more with how much he wanted to give in, to give John what he had wanted when he’d first found him--to take his hand when they caught a cab to the station, to know how to order for him when they went out to eat, to place a possessive hand on the back of his neck at crime scenes, to be free to explore the intense swell of physical want that he felt when John glanced at him, smiled, seemed to so naturally fit into his life and his work and his bed--

God _damn_ it.

He was not some animal driven by its base instinct for sex. He had never wanted it, and he didn’t need to want it now.

But damn it all, when John just bloody smiled at him. When he glanced up from his paper, or his tea and toast, or from the sidelines a crime scene (where Donovan often wasted time voicing pity for John, being soulmates with the Freak, before he’d inevitably glance over at Sherlock with that SMILE, and tell her to sod off), and Sherlock felt pinned by the weight of the devotion and compliance in those wide blue eyes. John did not make demands, did not challenge Sherlock’s lack of affection--he just obeyed and cared for his mate.

Some nights it became too much, and he found himself sitting in Mycroft’s office in the Diogenes Club, sipping brandy--he hated brandy--and staring at the rows of massive books that Mycroft had never read, trying to remember why exactly he’d sworn to never fall in love.

“Why am I feeling conflicted, when I know that my reasoning is sound? And he doesn’t argue with it. John is not unhappy. I have not lost the independence I insisted on, and he has his need to...to help me, to be there, that’s met. It is. So why am I...?’

Mycroft gazed at him over steepled fingers, his eyes gentle as he took in his brother’s discomfort and regret. He had not scolded Sherlock since the day he’d called him here to arrange his “accidental” second encounter with John, and he had no intention of doing so now. He could see the fractures beginning to appear in his brother’s armor. Eventually, he knew, Sherlock would get the picture.

He just hoped that happened before there was serious damage to either of them.

“Your personal nature is, truthfully, irrelevant when confronted with the discovery of your soulmate, Sherlock. I know you don’t like to hear that. But it’s something that you need to simply...accept. You spent years hoping that if fate had the audacity to designate someone for you, you’d simply never meet him--a reasonable desire, given your qualms, because once you did...well. You have seen for yourself. You can’t tell me you’d erase John from your life, can you?”

Sherlock flinched, dropping his gaze to the amber liquid in his glass. Mycroft smiled with surprising kindness. “Precisely. The draw of your mate is a fundamental element of your being. That, dear brother, is ‘why you are,’ as you so articulately described.”

Sherlock scowled, the expression so comically childish on his otherwise mature features that Mycroft had to suppress laughter. Even if the younger Holmes brother hadn’t noticed, those around him did; John Watson was getting to the young Dom, whether he liked it or not.

And if Sherlock weren’t trying so desperately to lie to himself, he might even admit that just perhaps...he might not mind so much anymore.


	4. Watch the Lights Go Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit's gonna splatter, start buggin,' yo. (A cookie for you if you get the reference!)
> 
> Also....Jim, you foxy bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the bizarre, "This is what I planned out but ahhhhhh feels weird!"

Sherlock didn't realize that his repressed desires had taken such a distinct hold of him until the day that John came home with groceries, smiling to himself. Every few minutes, he even let out a small chuckle. He carried the paper bags inside, kicking the door closed and crossing to the kitchen, for once not even glancing over at Sherlock.

Normally, John would stop and check on him, see if he needed anything, or at last pause just to say hello. Sherlock had come to accept that he was--despite his grievance with the concept of soulmates--the focal point of John's world. After living for some time now with John’s care and obedience, he had come to rather enjoy John’s dedication, even if he tried to remain impartial.

But he had never imagined the rush of displeasure he felt as John entered the flat, and passed him without a glance. For the first time, John was coming home as if it were just, well, his home--and not the place he shared with his Dom.

Sherlock could feel tension seep through his body, watching silently from his seat at the dining room table, parked in front of John’s commandeered laptop as John sauntered around the kitchen. He was actually humming, his fingers tapping absently across the counters as he put away the shopping.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, frowning when John continued to ignore him. He felt a bit like a petulant child, but this really was unusual. Despite Sherlock’s solid refusal to engage in an intimate relationship with his mate, John was absolutely stubborn about being the partner that Sherlock needed, in or out of their home. It was, in a way, an utterly one-sided romance, and yet he’d never heard the doctor complain. Greg had protested, and Mycroft would give him those looks, which he understood perfectly but pretended not to see. He believed that John was alright with how things were.

Eventually John glanced over at him, still half-smiling about whatever it was--and then he paused. A slight frown crossed his face as he met Sherlock’s dark gaze, and then his eyes flicked to the open laptop. He gave a bemused sigh.

“Honestly, Sherlock, you do have your own bloody computer.” Crossing to the Dom’s side, he reached out to close the laptop. Sherlock’s hand lashed out, sealing around his wrist, and John froze.

Sherlock rarely initiated physical contact. If he did, he always made sure his intention for it was clear, never wishing to give John false hope or cause him discomfort--well, more than he inadvertently did.

John had no idea that Sherlock could hear him, _feel_ him, when he slunk away to shower every night--no idea that Sherlock would learn against the wall outside the little bathroom, listening to the soft groans and breathy sighs that John made as he worked himself to orgasm. The number of times he’s winced and fled to his own room, because hearing John brokenly whisper “Sherlock!” when he came was too overwhelming, and he knew he’d give in, push the door open and enter the shower--probably wouldn’t even pause to remove his bloody clothes, he’d be too determined to get his hands on the man--but he couldn’t, he had chosen this arrangement, and he wasn’t going to change his mind. So he just listened, then lay on his bed with his fist pressed to his mouth, trying to feel impartial about jerking off, even as he imagined how John must look with his hand on himself, the water streaming down his tan, muscular body, imagined how it could feel to own that body, to dictate his movements and his pleasure and his gratification.

But instead he maintained his distance and his silence, and he never let himself touch unless it was clear what he meant by it.

Except now.

Now his fingers curled tightly around John’s wrist, feeling the muscles and tendons flex as John jerked, not expecting the contact. For all that he was hard and compact with muscle and raw strength, the doctor was unwilling to fight his Dom, and he went utterly still, instinct holding him in place, ready to obey.

Sherlock’s breath hissed out of his lungs as he realized that he had unintentionally triggered such a submissive response. It should not have surprised him; John had never made any effort to hide his desire, or his readiness to submit. But this was different, more raw and real, the physical shift of John’s body angling toward his, receptive to the unspoken advance.

Sherlock heard himself speak, and his voice was low and hoarse, nothing like he’d intended it to be. “What were you smiling about, John?”

The sub’s eyebrows drew together, bewilderment flashing in his features, before they smoothed back to a kind of tense indifference. Sherlock felt his own long-ignored instincts flaring like fireworks.

“No,” he growled, standing abruptly, while simultaneously forcing John to move, pressing him back against the edge of the table. He was still gripping John’s right wrist in his own left hand, and without conscious thought he seized the other as well, effectively pinning John between the table and his hips, moving his hands so that John’s were pressed to the table top, secured by his long, pale fingers.

John’s mouth fell open as if to protest, but no sound emerged. He simply stared up at Sherlock, whose whole body was tensed, coiled and ready for--something. His instincts were at war within him; routine and courtesy demanded that he release John immediately, but his nature was to dominate, and the voice he had spent years ignoring was whispering in his ear, telling him that it was time, John was his, and he must stake his claim, erase whatever or whoever had put that smile on his face, assert his ownership over John--though, logic breathed back, John was his, even if he was a useless mate, and John could not stray...could he?

John was shaking. That was what finally broke through the muddy chaos raging in Sherlock’s mind. He focused on the wide blue eyes, inches from his own.

“John.” His voice was low still, but more controlled. “Please, tell me.”

There was a flash of something he did not want to see--something defiant, angry, John resisting, fighting him. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and then there was only vulnerability and confusion left.

“I...” John took a breath, seemed to steady himself, and if Sherlock were not pressed against him from hips to knees, he would think that John was remaining remarkably unaffected by their proximity--but no, and John had to know that he felt it, the distinct hard curve trapped between them. But his voice was steady, if a little raspy.

“I was--at the shop.” He seemed to want to stop there, but Sherlock tightened his fingers, a reflexive warning, and John flinched and kept speaking. “I ran into--into another--a consultant. For the Yard. He hasn’t worked with you, I don’t think, but I’ve seen him at the station. He--recognized me. He was--we chatted, he--he said he’d been meaning to introduce himself. He was friendly. He gave me his number.”

Sherlock was finding it strangely hard to breathe, suddenly. He did not understand the flash of fiery anger that was pulsing through his veins. It made no sense, no more than the way he was secretly loving the sensations of John’s body, powerless and instinctively pliant under his weight, needy without meaning to be, but it was there--he was furious. Envy and pure, possessive rage were hardening into steel in his chest, making him feel almost animalistic in the territorial intensity.

John could apparently read all of this in his face, in the span of a few seconds. He tugged half-heartedly against Sherlock’s grip, which did not lessen. “Sherlock,” he murmured, his voice sounding as raw as if he’d been weeping. “Sherlock, what’s--what’s gotten into you?”

The detective stared at his soulmate for a long, silent moment, the sheer need coursing through him in terrifying waves. He wanted to tear John apart, strip away his clothing and defenses and mark every inch of him, make it clear to all usurpers exactly who the submissive belonged to.

But he could not imagine anything more cruel.

He had rejected John, made it clear that he was welcome here as a flatmate, as a business associate--but not as his soulmate, not as a bedmate, a lover and companion and perhaps someday husband--

He yanked away, releasing John and stumbling back several paces. His breathing was labored, but he tugged his jacket, metaphorically smoothing his rumpled feathers. Guilt clashed with irritation as he saw the way John sagged back against the table, confused and afraid and undeniably aroused.

“I’m sorry, John.” His voice was unrecognizable to his own ears. “I did not mean--to--I’m sorry.” Incoherency did not suit Sherlock. “I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

John’s eyebrows rose slowly, color flooding his cheeks and anger flashing in his fierce blue eyes as he realized that this was not progress between them. “You didn’t,” he said curtly. “But--don’t--touch me like that, if you’re--if we’re not--”

Sherlock raised a hand, unable to actually hear the words out of John’s mouth, that mouth that tormented him with smiles and jokes and knowing little laughs, because John fit with him, belonged to him. He had turned down his sub, but he did not think he could bear to be refused in return--not right now. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

John’s jaw tightened, and then he spun away. Snapping his laptop shut, he carried it out of the living room, his footsteps thudding up the stairs as he went to his room.

A few minutes later, Sherlock sat in his armchair, gripping an open book that he hadn’t even glanced at the title of, and he kept his gaze down as John passed him, the bathroom door closing a moment later. The shower turned on.

Sherlock set the book aside, inhaled deeply. He tried to imagine John at the shop, going about his errands, and then a faceless stranger approaching him, hitting on him, chatting him up until he was laughing and comfortable, willing to accept a strange man’s mobile number.

Sherlock’s fingers clenched into a fist.

He stood without actually making a conscious decision, his feet carrying him down the hallway, his shoulder finding the wall next to the bathroom door, his head tilting until his temple was pressed against the cool, off-white wallpaper.

He could hear John’s breathing--harsh and rough, but not with gasps or sighs of pleasure. He was...crying.

Sherlock’s entire body locked up, and grief speared through him--he was the cause of this, and he did not know how to mend it, or even if he could. He listened to the soft sobs and shaky inhalations, his hands pressed to the wall, longing as always to enter, but for once, it was not a sexual longing. He did not want to touch John, not now, not if the submissive did not want him to. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he simply wanted to hold him, to cradle him close and reassure him.

But he remained still.

The crying faded after a while, and then the sighs and moans reached him. Sherlock’s heart twisted as he realized that John’s pain couldn’t outweigh his natural desire for his Dom, and he still needed to relieve that need. He listened, swallowing helplessly, as John’s whimpers became breathier, his voice rising in moans he couldn’t seem to help, the sound of the rushing water drowning out what Sherlock really wanted to hear, the sounds of wet flesh and aching want, a hand slicking over what he knew without a doubt was his sub’s beautiful, desperate cock.

When John came, he wasn’t as quiet as usual--whether he knew Sherlock would be listening, or simply didn’t care this time. He cried out softly, Sherlock’s name lost amid his gasps. Sherlock pushed the heel of his hand roughly over his own erection, refusing to give himself relief, just this once. He felt as though he had let his sub--his friend--down, and he didn’t want it, odd as that was.

When the shower switched off, Sherlock took a deep breath, then strode to his bedroom, afraid--a novelty, for him--actually afraid of what he might say or do if he faced John again now.

* * *

Greg called for them the next morning, and after a tense, silent cab ride, they found themselves tucked into an alleyway between two office buildings, surrounded by police and yellow tape and flashing lights, and a body lying face-down behind a dumpster. Sherlock flitted around the scene, eyes and hands darting around as he gathered his data, ignored the forensics team shuffling out of his way, muttered responses to Greg’s inquiries, and tried not to react when John flinched away from him as he rejoined the two men.

He was explaining his conclusions to Greg when he felt the awkwardness between himself and John shift, a distinct coldness settling between them. He had never felt anything like it before, and a full-body shudder rippled through him, because it felt as though their connection--something he had taken for granted and never realized was a warm, constant part of him--had suddenly been stretched just a little too taut, and was in danger of snapping. He turned on his heel, fixing his gaze on John with concern.

A man had walked up to the sub, smiling a little too warmly at him. Everything about him set off alarms in Sherlock’s head. He was small and wiry, with dark hair and darker eyes, a glint in them that did not bode well. Dressed impeccably in a sleek, charcoal grey suit, he reached John’s side with an easy, sloping gait, hands casually slipped into his pants pockets, a half smile, half smirk turning up his thin lips.

“John! Fancy seeing you here.” Even his voice was distressing to Sherlock, high and soft, with a lilting Irish accent that made the Dom’s jaw clench until it creaked. He could hear Greg saying his name, but he did not turn back.

John’s face had lit up far too brightly, far too happy to see this stranger. “Jim!” he returned, and his voice held too much pleasure, Sherlock was suddenly on fire with hostility. “Good to see you. Yeah, I’m just here for show, I’m with--”

John had half-turned, his hand rising toward Sherlock, but he froze when Sherlock suddenly stepped up beside him, too close, possessiveness surging through him as he placed his hand assertively at the back of John’s neck--that was wrong, he was out of line, this was the gesture of a bonded Dom, but he could not withdraw his hand, not when this man, Jim, glanced at his hand and back at his face with such a smug little grin, as though he knew--

John had jumped slightly, which dislodged Sherlock’s hand, and the doctor was staring up at him. “Uh,” he said, looking distinctly confused and a little hurt. “Sherlock, this is--this is Jim, Jim Moriarty, I...mentioned him, yesterday. Jim, this is my--colleague?” Said too much like a question. “This is Sherlock Holmes."

Jim offered a slender, milk-white hand, and Sherlock shook it, his grip too tight, wanting to hurt the other Dom--and he was a Dom, his posture and bearing screamed command and aggression and mastery, and the hungry glance he slid over John was predatory. “Pleasure,” he said lightly, and Sherlock curled his lip in a distinct but silent snarl.

He barely recognized his own voice when he spoke, his tone glacial. “John, I’m nearly finished with this. We aren’t needed further. Take a cab and wait for me at home.”

The pause that followed this order--and it was undeniably, absolutely an order, given by a Dominant to his submissive, with no room for argument--was possibly the longest moment of Sherlock’s life. He forced himself to look away from Moriarty’s widening grin, and turned to face John.

The submissive’s eyes were enormous, and absolutely glistening with rage and...betrayal. Sherlock felt nausea rush through his stomach, oozing up through his chest and making him want to vomit with the horror of what he had just done to his soulmate. He had refused to bond with John, to give him the safety and intimacy he craved from his destined partner--and yet with one command, he had stripped John of the independence and free will that should have been his shelter from that rejection.

But even in a one-sided relationship, John had still essentially given himself to Sherlock over the last several months. He could not fight his need to obey his Dom. Without a word further to either Sherlock or Moriarty--though he shot an angry, apologetic look at Greg as he stalked past him--John turned and strode out of the alley, vanishing around the corner.

Sherlock did not spare another glance at Moriarty, unwilling to see that hateful, smug expression. He turned sharply, finding Greg staring after John with shock and concern etched on his kind, rugged face. “What the bloody hell was that?” he asked worriedly. “Why in God’s name was he angry at you giving him an order? I mean, yeah, you could’ve been gentler, it’s not like he was going to run off on you--” His weary brown eyes flickered to Moriarty over Sherlock’s shoulder, hardening slightly, then jumped back to the detective. “What just happened, Sherlock?”

The taller Dom felt his shoulders sink down, somehow more ashamed in the face of the DI’s consternation. “Greg--” he started, then stopped, frustration bubbling through him, raw and disconcerting. “Lestrade,” he tried again, not quite looking the older man in the eyes. “You--we--I never told you.” He could still feel Moriarty behind him, somehow knew without turning that the spidery little man was still just watching him, and it made his anger spark again. “You know John and I aren’t bound.” Greg raised an eyebrow, nodding, and Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened, knowing judgment was coming, verbal or not. “We--aren’t even in a relationship. I’m, I won’t...I wouldn’t take him.”

He heard the sharp intake of Greg’s breath, knew the DI was fighting not to overreact at him. He braced himself, and waited.

Greg’s voice was sharp and tight. “I watch him with you almost every day. That man would take a bullet--fucking hell, he’d kill for you--” Sherlock didn’t waste the energy informing him that John had in fact already done so, once-- “He’d jump off a fucking building for you, Sherlock, and you’re telling me that you can’t even give him a bit of ruddy affection in return?”

Sherlock’s lip curled again, derisive of the choice of words. “Soulmates, Lestrade...We live in a world where there is no happy ending if you try to settle for just a ‘bit of affection.’ What John wants from me is all or nothing, so I opted for nothing.” He glanced backward, his jaw clenching again as he saw Moriarty still there, now talking animatedly with Sally, who appeared to like the bastard well enough--typical. He turned his back on them.

“I can’t be the mate that John needs, and I thought it was--it’s better this way. But he--he’s flirting, he didn’t refuse this--interloper--this attention, I don’t understand what is happening.” He pressed his fist to his eyes, angry with himself. “I feel so possessive and volatile...and I can’t fathom it.”

Greg touched his arm, and Sherlock found himself caught in the DI’s gaze, those brown eyes once again warm and dark with something like pity, which made him feel more sick. “Sherlock.” Greg’s voice was soft, gentle. “Mycroft...should have warned you.” He looked away, his shoulders sagging, then shrugged.

“Sherlock, if you don’t work at a soulmate bond, it can...it will rot. It will weaken, and eventually snap. I know they tell you it doesn’t go away unless one of you dies, but the thing is, not every pair wants to stick it out. Not every two people ‘destined’ for each other choose to be...well, in love. And it’s possible to let your soulmate get away from you.” He glanced past Sherlock again, his expression confirming that Moriarty was still there. “If you let it, the connection will rot to nothing. John will be free to do as he pleases, same as if you were dead. Cept you won’t be. And you and I both know that you won’t be able to bear it, but you’ll have to pretend to, because you brought it on yourself.”

Sherlock found himself frozen, attempting to interpret this data, to categorize the sickening information he was being given. “You mean...Greg. Do you mean that if I continue with the routine we’ve established--with--neglect--” The word choked him, he hated it, it wasn’t accurate at all, he never meant to _abandon_ John in any way-- “He--could leave, and not--or--or give himself to someone--else?”

Greg looked exhausted. “Sherlock, he’s a submissive. And he wants to belong to someone. He wants a Dom, someone to give him the orders and stability that his nature craves. If you’re not willing to be what he needs...then yes. He can find another Dom.

Sherlock jerked away bodily, his mind suddenly flooding with sickening images. He knew the sounds John made, the way his voice cracked and his breath caught when he got off, and he could picture it so clearly--and now his mind supplied the rest, filled in a stranger touching John, working him through his pleasure and making him cry out and moan, he could imagine another name replacing his own on John’s lips as he came, and white-hot rage filled Sherlock.

He looked at Greg sharply. “I won’t let that happen.”

Greg looked pained, shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy coat. “You may have pushed him too far, Sherlock. You may be too late to stop it.”

That thought was too much. Sucking in a breath, Sherlock glanced around the crime scene, then tugged his collar up and strode out of the alley, blindly hailing a cab as he struggled to compile the right words, things he never imagined saying in his life, but they were the only way to keep from losing John. Behind him, Greg muttered a weak prayer that the two wouldn’t bloody murder one another--he didn’t need the paperwork--then turned to deal with the dead body at hand.

Neither the DI or the consulting detective noticed Moriarty still loitering behind the tape, his bottomless black eyes tracking their exchange, and Sherlock’s dramatic departure. Neither man noticed the way his smile turned cold and feral, nothing left of the synthetic warmth he’d shown to John. The Irishman let out a low whistle, pulling a pack of gum from his pocket and slipping a piece into his mouth.

“Well, this is just going to be _such_ fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knowing as I do what is coming up, I'm unsure if some contents in this chapter will create inconsistencies, so there may be edits later.
> 
> I feel like I torture these poor boys.


	5. Like A Fireworks Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that this is a kind of short chapter, but I knew that this one scene was all that I wanted to show here. Hopefully I can write up the next one tomorrow. :)

The process of climbing the stairs to 221B had never occupied much of Sherlock’s attention; whether he was racing up the steps on the adrenaline high of a chase, or wandering up them slowly, contemplating a successful case, he had simply never paid much heed to the task of lifting one foot after the other.

But now, knowing that John was waiting at the top--either furious with him, or hurt in a way that Sherlock did not know how to mend--the detective was at a loss. It took all of his willpower--and the memory of the hateful smirk on Moriarty's face--for him to put one foot in front of the other and mount the bare wooden steps from the foyer to their flat. “ _Their_.” A seemingly innocuous word which suddenly seemed so fragile.

The door to 221B was ajar, whether because John had been too angry to close it properly, or because he was awaiting Sherlock’s arrival, he couldn’t deduce. On the other side, he could hear John in the kitchen, the routine sounds of tea preparation interspersed with faint swearing. Sherlock stomach tightened as he entered the flat.

He knew that John had heard him come in, so he waited for him to break the sudden silence first.

There was a crack of porcelain striking the counter as John dropped his mug, and gave another low curse.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "John--" he began.

"Fuck off!"

Sherlock flinched, having never heard his mate speak to him that way before. John had not turned around, nor looked up as he snapped the words. Abruptly, he gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. His shoulders were shaking. Sherlock was struck by the fact that John had not removed his coat or shoes, even though he had been home a while before the detective.

"John?" he repeated, his voice softer. His instincts were screaming at him, but he needed to be in control right now, needed to help john somehow. He took a cautious step forward.

" _No_ , don't, just...stop," John said, his voice breathless and low. He finally turned his head, staring at Sherlock with glassy, pain-filled eyes. "Sherlock....what the fuck?"

The Dom winced, really disliking John swearing at him. His shoulders hunched as though to deflect the harsh words. "John, I am sorry. I mean it," he added sharply, as John huffed out an irritated laugh. "I shouldn't have--"

He cut himself off, weariness rushing over him. He didn't know how to proceed. Instinct told him that he needed to be Dominant, confidant, in charge of John's emotions, and needs, and anger. But Sherlock had flatly refused to accept that authority.

He sighed heavily and tipped his head to the side. "I should never have behaved that way. I apologize. I reacted on base instinct, and it was inappropriate to our...dynamic. Please, John, can we put it behind us?"

For a split second, John looked bewildered. Then his eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and he turned on Sherlock with a furious snarl.

"No, Sherlock, we bloody well can't. We can't fucking 'put it behind us.' Our bloody 'dynamic' is--we aren't--this isn't how it's meant to be!" His whole body was shaking with rage and grief, and Sherlock was held immobile in the force of the outburst.

"You are a complete prick, you know that?" John turned away, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes were bright and hard, and Sherlock couldn't repress a slight shudder; he hadn't realized how much he valued John's good nature and easy humor until it was stripped away so utterly.

“John...”

“No. It’s my turn to speak.” The submissive straightened up, striding forward to face Sherlock, nearly touching him. But not quite, not close enough. “We can’t put this behind us, because this issue isn’t just going to go away, Sherlock.” A flash of pain unexpectedly crossed his face, and Sherlock jerked miserably at the sight of it.

“I tried, I am trying so _hard_ , Sherlock. I have taken all of your indifference, and you giving me the cold shoulder, I have endured you barely even glancing at me and ignoring me unless you need something--I let you do anything you like, because the thing is, I just want to be bloody _enough_ for you! I would give you any--all of--”

John stopped, breathing raggedly. He moved away again, pacing restlessly to the dining room table, leaning back against the edge as his shoulders trembled. The air froze in Sherlock’s lungs, his mind abruptly assaulted by the memory of John pinned to that spot by his body, aroused and angry and so willing. Sherlock’s lips parted unconsciously, and he licked them absently, feeling the dark, Dominant hunger flaring again.

Apparently unaware of this internal struggle, John turned his face away, unable to meet the Dom’s eyes.

“‘Soulmates.’ That’s supposed to mean something, some kind of amazing compatibility or bond that...fits, makes sense, or something. The moment we met should have been life-changing.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and his voice was far raspier than he could have believed possible, and still have it be audible. “Was it not?”

John’s gaze leapt to his, brows furrowing. “It was for me,” he said tightly.

Then his eyes sank closed. “Greg keeps telling me that I can’t bloody wait for you forever. That I have to choose; be your friend, your _assistant_ \--” The word was said so sneeringly, so scornfully, it stung Sherlock somehow-- “Or...leave you.”

It took a moment for Sherlock--whose mind could follow a dozen tracks at once, his brain was better than a damned _supercomputer_ \--to comprehend the last bit.

“Leave?” he echoed. “What--what do you mean, leave?”

John heaved an exhausted, resigned sigh. “Sherlock, we want two utterly different things. I want a _mate_ \--not just the word, not just enduring the way you make me feel, the things you make me _want_ \--” He flushed, choking off that thought, and Sherlock took a moment of guilty pleasure at the admission. “I want a Dom. Who...wants me back. Who will take care of me, use me, meet my needs by fulfilling his. I want...” His eyes closed again. “I want love. And God, Sherlock, I want sex, bloody hell.”

Sherlock swallowed, the imagery those words evoked teasing his over-sensitive mind’s eye. “You...want it from me.”

John shot him a scathing look, cowing him appropriately. His eyes swirled with flint grey and ice blue. “Don’t be difficult, Sherlock, it doesn’t suit you. Of course I bloody want _you_. You...complete me, and if you weren’t so bloody closed off to the world, we’d be...such a pair.” There was a terrible kind of longing mixed with loss in his face now. “I liked to believe, sometimes, that you would look at me a bit differently, maybe saw me more...clearly, somehow. Like you might be seeing me for who I was meant to be--not a doctor or a man but as a sub--as _your_ sub. Like you might realize just how deeply, truly, I wanted to belong to you.”

Sherlock felt something shift infinitesimally, something bad and unwelcome slipping between them, and he did not like it at all. “You’re speaking in past tense.”

John looked at him, and there was something so helpless in his eyes, something that was too much for Sherlock to bear.

“I can’t just hold on to blind hope, Sherlock, I can’t live like this. I looked after you because I wanted to, I followed you anywhere, always, because I can’t bear for you to leave me behind. But the thing is, you always will. Leave me behind, that is. You’re not being cruel, or careless--you just aren’t any more aware of me than you are of anyone else around you.”

John’s hands dropped back onto the tabletop, and his whole body seemed to slump in on itself. “You’ve become my entire universe, Sherlock Holmes--but if I walked out of this flat for good, right now, the only thing you might miss is how tidy things are, or the kitchen always being--well, no, I s’pose not that, you’d never bloody remember to eat, would you?”

Sherlock found himself experiencing intense, unfamiliar symptoms of anxiety. He was shaking, his fingers clenching needfully around nothing, and he couldn’t quite seem to draw enough oxygen into his lungs. There was a tinny sort of buzzing in his ears. When he spoke, he heard his voice as though it were coming from very far away. “John...please, you need to stay.”

John ran a hand wearily over his face--that honest, familiar face, that Sherlock was far too used to, and he didn’t know how to process that the idea that Greg might be right, that he might have pushed too hard--and when John answered, he wasn’t looking at the Dom, his eyes fixed on some far-off point. “I can’t, Sherlock, not if you aren’t willing to accept me completely. If I was as impartial as you are, maybe. I’d have been honored to spend my life working with you. But I want the security and the intimacy and, sod it, the love, and you...aren’t that man. Soulmates or not.”

Everything clicked then, silencing the ringing in Sherlock’s ears, calming the tremors, and quelling the unease. John believed he was unwanted. He thought that Sherlock truly felt nothing for him, and this fight was not about being angry or impatient; this was because he thought he did not have a place in Sherlock’s mind and soul and heart, and he could not bear to live under false hope that he would ever achieve it. Which made Sherlock’s attitude at the crime scene seem far more callous than he’d realized.

Well, that settled that. Pride and resolve be damned.

Sherlock crossed the room, his longer legs closing the distance between them in less than three steps. John’s head turned, his eyes jumping to Sherlock’s face, confusion beginning to bloom, but Sherlock ignored it all. When he reached the doctor, he raised his hands, palms closing around the shorter man’s face, cradling it as if it were the most priceless thing he had ever handled--and in a way, at this crucial crossroad moment, it really was.

John sucked in a breath, lips parting, likely about to protest or snap at Sherlock for the intrusion of his personal space, but that simply accommodated the Dominant man’s intentions. Breathing out something akin to a “hush” sound, Sherlock leaned in and pressed his mouth against John’s.

Any objections John might have had were lost in the seam of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock himself had never explored this level of intimacy before, but he could only imagine how important the first kiss would be for John, and so, for the first time in his memory, he dropped his guard and allowed his Dominant instincts to take over.

Which, it seemed, was definitely the correct way to go. As though he could feel the switch being thrown inside Sherlock’s mind, John suddenly moaned, opening himself up completely to the assault on his mouth. His teeth closed over Sherlock’s bottom lip, a half-teasing, half-punishing bite that came like a kick to the detective’s senses.

Sherlock heard the growl that slipped from his own throat, felt the resulting full-body shudder that rippled through John’s frame, and he happily embraced the encouragement. His tongue slid along the full curve of John’s mouth, which opened eagerly to admit him.

Oh, and that was a whole new realm of discovery; Sherlock had never encountered anything quite as sweet and welcoming and so utterly _right_ as the taste of John’s mouth, pliant and receptive and his.

Mumbling his pleasure at the sensations, Sherlock shifted, needing to feel more. He let his arms fall, yanking off his gloves and pressing one bare hand to John’s side, sliding beneath his coat and fisting in the soft fabric of his jumper.

The other hand closed over John’s hip, clenching around the hard curve of his leather belt. He longed to slip his fingers a little further, forward or back--to unbuckle the belt, or to let his palm mold itself to the shape of John’s arse, and urge that he would never have anticipated even an hour earlier.

John’s whole lower body jolted, seemingly unable to decide whether to beg wordlessly for more, or to recoil. Sherlock needed to take that decision out of his hands. Immediately.

He pressed one leg forward, thrusting his thigh between John’s knees, and grinding his weight roughly against his sub’s body. John shuddered violently, releasing a helpless little gasping cry that fell in softly puffed breaths onto Sherlock’s lips. He smiled into the sub’s mouth, savoring the way his kisses were becoming messier, less coordinated, more needy licking and biting than the smooth slide of mouth-on-mouth. Sherlock certainly wasn’t complaining.

He pressed himself even closer, and in doing so, he brought their hips into perfect alignment. John emitted a high, keening moan as he felt Sherlock’s erection, hard and prominent through his suit trousers, fitting snugly against his own obvious hard-on.

Sherlock felt the tension that suddenly flooded his mate’s body, the way his arms and abdomen and upper legs began locking in resistance. He knew John would have argued about the kiss, attempted to hold onto his resolve to leave and insist that it meant nothing--but he could not ignore such obvious evidence of Sherlock’s returned interest.

Sherlock had no intention of leaving the submissive still feeling unwanted. He snapped his hips forward, rutting his aching arousal against that of his mate. He was shocked at how intensified every sensation was, the feeling of John’s body pinned to his more erotic and drug-like than self-stimulation had ever come close to being.

He became aware of John’s voice then, soft whimpers and pleading gasps and the occasional burst what he suspected was a garbled attempt to moan his name--now that was gratifying--beautiful small noises, panted into his ear.

“John,” he whispered hoarsely, hands tightening. “John, we _can_...we could...”

Under his grasp, John stiffened. His entire body went rigid, and the stark rejection of their current activity hit Sherlock’s Dominant instincts like a cold shower. He tilted his head, trying to see John’s eyes, needing reassurance that his mate was alright.

John was shaking, his whole body spasming as he seemed to wage an intense internal war. Before Sherlock’s stricken eyes, John’s face closed off, and a wall came crashing down, straining Sherlock’s consciousness of their bond to near breaking point. He gasped in a breath, stunned by the abrupt change.

It must have been easier than John had expected to shove Sherlock away, because he stumbled a little as he moved off the table edge, his expression bleak and sealed off. He didn’t pause, didn’t say a word, barely spared Sherlock more than one hard, searing look--and then he turned, hands scrambling to draw his coat more tightly around himself, and he bolted toward the door.

Sherlock’s whole body locked down with disbelief. “John--!” he began, but it was too late. The door slammed downstairs, and John was gone.


	6. Something that Will Haunt Me (When You're Not Around)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizations, liberations, and smutty smut?
> 
> WARNINGS for, well, rather aggressive sexy times, and vague slut-shaming ish dialogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well kitty cats, I can't apologize enough for how long this one took. Every time I sat down to write it, my brain was like, "Heeeeey no." And then I couldn't get Sherlock to sit still and pose for me. And then the smut seemed weird and forced (you be the judge of that, I guess...)
> 
> Anyway yeah. Hopefully it never takes me forever again. >.
> 
> Know what's frustrating? I so badly want to illustrate some of these scenes, let you guys see what I do, but I just can't do them justice. So annoying.

In the moments that past after John fled, all that Sherlock could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He could feel too many conflicting sentiments, all warring for his attention.

He was still aroused; even though he was concerned and anxious in the face of John’s response, he could not help the rush of possessive need that finally touching John, and kissing him, had unlocked within him. It swirled through his body, making him itch for an outlet, and keeping his cock unhelpfully hard as he encountered the suddenly-tangible emptiness of the flat.

But there was also frustration--not just sexual, though of course that was there, making his skin tingle where the cool air touched him when it should be John’s hands. He was vexed with John for running, but far angrier at himself for how much he had royally fucked this all up.

He had done wrong by his mate, in so many ways. It was heartless of him to have brought John home, into his personal life, and insist that they would never bond. However superior his intellect was to the general population, Sherlock was still a red-blooded male; of _course_ having John here, loyal and fierce and so entirely his to take, was overwhelming. It had been inevitable that he would surrender to their mutual need for a physical power exchange.

Beautiful, powerful, fiery-spirited John...here, in their private space, he was something far more raw and untamed and untouched by the outside world; all of his strength and focus meant to bow to Sherlock’s desires.

A soft groan fell from Sherlock, and he dropped into his armchair after dragging his coat and scarf off. A nervous buzz was thrumming through him. He could not decide if he needed his violin, or a new case (This promptly brought today’s crime scene to mind, and then Moriarty, and he slammed the metaphorical door on that thought immediately), or--

John. God, how he needed John now. A pained gasp wheezed from him, as dozens of past fantasies--featuring John by himself, fueled by his sounds of pleasure that Sherlock knew far too well, never accompanied by any previously unknowable images of John blissed out by an impending orgasm--suddenly crashed into his head, and bled into the _very_ fresh recollection of John coming undone under his hands, flexing to his slightest touch, mouth open, throat bared, legs spreading--

Sherlock cried out, pressing a hand to the _throbbing_ erection that ached between his thighs. He had acknowledged his Dominant longings, had allowed John to become the sexually charged prize that he had always been meant to be, and Sherlock could not fathom returning to normal.

Or--God--losing it all. John _couldn’t_ be gone for good--not after this. Sherlock had to believe that he would return to him. To his mate and master. ** **  
****

He shuddered, because the certainty that came with these thoughts was disconcerting. The psychological chain had fallen away. He was practically vibrating with the aggression, the simmering control, the need to _take-protect-claim-care for-protect_ that seemed to flow like a halo around his awareness--strained though it seemed to be, now--of John’s existence. His mate was _his_ , and he needed to bed and bond him.

He realized with a shudder that he was palming himself fully now, stroking his hard cock through the fabric of his trousers at the thought of John laid out in his bed, perhaps with his hands bound to the iron rungs of Sherlock’s headboard...his back arching, knees parting, his gentle low voice breaking as he begged so prettily for Sherlock to take his pleasure, to grant John his touch...

Inserting himself into the fantasy was utterly intoxicating. Sherlock looked at the floor at his feet, envisioning John kneeling for him, those skilled, firm hands on his thighs--or better yet, tied behind his back, stretching those fine, broad shoulders back. Sherlock hissed out a breath, unzipping his trousers and curling his hand around himself.

He could imagine John bowing his head, leaning in, body language begging for his Dom to let him pleasure him. Of course he would allow it, would draw John forward and rub the head of his cock over those pale lips, watch John’s tongue dart out for a taste. He would allow that, too. Eventually, he would have his fingers tangled in John’s short, shaggy hair, gripping the sandy strands as he fucked his mate’s mouth.

In his mind, John suddenly raised his beautiful blue-grey eyes, locking gazes with Sherlock so that everything was bared to him: the love, and the lust, and the commitment. The life-long promise that never had to be said aloud, but would never need to be doubted.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, his hand flying off of himself as though he’d been burned. He thought suddenly of the bonded mate pairs who he knew, and of the way it had altered them. Mycroft, impassively incorporating his assistant-turned-mate into his business-driven life. Lestrade, losing his wife because he worked too much, and she had lost her submissive respect for him. Donovan, who had never found her mate, and had settled for dominating Anderson, because his Dom had been a sadistic bastard and was now in prison.

Countless murders and domestic violence cases and kidnappings and blackmail charges, which Sherlock solved easily, while noting every trend of harm and abandonment and neglect and regret...soulmates might be perfectly compatible with one another, but their bliss was only certain in the bedroom. The world outside was not a good place, and happiness, if it was real, did not last.

He zipped up his trousers, then went to finish the tea that John had never made. Removing his jacket, toeing off his shoes and rolling up his sleeves, he resumed his seat, idly mixing sugar into the tea, gazing unseeingly at the still-open door.

He knew John would come back. In the dark, as the sun sank below the city skyline, he sat in silence, waiting.

John would come back.

* * *

It wasn’t until well past sundown, but John did return. The door downstairs opened and closed, and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson pop out of her flat, yoo-hoo’ing John and laughing softly about nothing with him. Her door closed after a moment, and the doctor’s familiar booted tread mounted the steps.

When John appeared in the doorway, Sherlock had to carefully quell the instant need to leap up, to greet him with too much relief, losing his upper hand.

John looked miserable, torn between anger and guilt. A frisson of alarm trickled down Sherlock’s spine: he strongly hoped it was guilt for running out earlier. Not for John’s whereabouts in the hours since then.

That thought made his voice colder than he’d intended it to be. “Go to Jim, then, did you?” The name fell like poison from his lips. He set aside his tea cup with a sharp tinkling sound, noting the way his words had made John’s mouth tighten in annoyance. _Hm_.

After a long moment, John sighed, letting his posture slump. His face turned carefully neutral. “Look--Sherlock, I shouldn’t have run out on you. It was a childish reaction. I should’ve stayed to talk about--what happened. I’m sorry.”

He paused, and it looked as if he was steeling himself. “We don’t--we don’t have to talk about it at all, if you don’t want. I--won’t mention it again, if--you’d prefer. We can just say that it didn’t happen, yeah? I mean, not that we-- _can’t_ , if you need to, I’ll--I’ll listen.” He stopped, looking utterly lost. “I just...whatever you prefer. I won’t run away again, I promise.”

That word again, that reference to a kind of bond that they did not share, because Sherlock was too proud and aloof of a creature. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I have no wish to _talk_.”

John flinched slightly, and Sherlock regretted the hard edge in his tone. He was far too tightly coiled, too ready to spring, and he could barely breathe from the pressure.

“Right.” The shorter man’s gaze dropped, his posture going automatically into the meekness of a sub expecting to be punished. Sherlock’s heart rate accelerated.

John might have said more, or he might have tried to simply retreat and go hide in his room, but Sherlock wasn’t having that. He was on his feet and in front of his mate in an instant. John sucked in a startled breath, but he was still tensed with the submitting instinct, keeping him frozen in place. Sherlock took full advantage.

Seizing John’s wrists and crossing them over each other, he quite easily held them secure with one hand, freeing him to use the other--along with the full weight of his body--to drive John backwards. He didn’t aim for a table this time; instead he had John pinned to the wall beside the door, which he almost lazily kicked shut, as the hand at John’s waist slid upwards, cupping his jaw and keeping his face still, forcing the sub to meet his eyes. Sherlock knew that his own were positively smouldering.

“I have no wish to _talk_ , John, because I believe that my actions, before your unmerited departure, were rather self-explanatory. I know that I have hurt you, both by my thoughtless treatment of you since you entered my life, and by my ludicrous behavior at the crime scene. But the fact is, John Watson, that I cannot escape you...your presence...” Sherlock leaned in, pressed his nose to the curve of John’s throat, and he felt the shorter man quiver with shock--and blatant lust--as his tongue slipped out, probing over the sub’s pulse point. “...And while I am well aware that I have absolutely no right to ask this of you now...I believe I am correct in the assumption that if I were to give in to the need you provoke in me...if I were to simply shove you against this wall and fuck you right here, right now...” John’s primitive groan at the blunt, crude language was more than affirmation enough for the Dom, and he grinned lasciviously against John’s neck. “...I don’t think you would say a damn word of protest, would you? In fact....” Almost lazily, Sherlock thrust his knee between John’s legs, but unlike the heated moment against the table, just hours before, this was something much better, filled with sinful promise, and he ground his thigh against the impressive erection he could feel at John’s groin. “I’d wager that all I would hear from you is very pretty begging...for more...harder...and ‘God, yes, Sherlock’...am I wrong?”

Trapped by Sherlock’s body, the grip on his upraised hands and at his throat, and the long, powerful leg pressed against his cock, John let out a truly pornographic whimper. His eyes were hooded and lust-glazed, but he was able to look the Dom in the eyes, and seemed to gather his wits to a small degree.

“Sherlock...why...now?”

The detective frowned, knowing it was a perfectly fair question--too fair to dismiss and continue his planned ravishing of his submissive. He leaned forward, bringing his mouth quite close to John’s, so that he would feel the heat of the words on his lips.

“Because, John Watson, you are _my_ mate. Only I will take you apart and wring your pleasure from you...only I will strip you bare, body and mind, and reduce you to begging...and only I will give you the peace and completion that you so desperately crave. Only me. Is that clear?”

He saw the shift in John’s eyes, the abrupt realization that this was it, this was real; Sherlock was entering Dominant mode. He was awaiting John’s permission to fulfill his role. He had heard the hard edge in his voice, knew that John could see the equal measures of need and fury that were frothing to the surface inside him. This was raw, Dominant power. Angry, and restless, and _taking_.

The sub sucked in a stunned breath, which escaped him an instant later with an airless gasp, saturated with want: “Oh, God yes, Sherlock... _please_.”

Sherlock spared one second for a truly wicked smirk, and then he claimed John’s mouth. The sub did not fight him this time, letting his mate’s tongue slip inside, and returning the fervor of the kiss enthusiastically. It was vaguely overwhelming to Sherlock; after trying so hard to ignore the allure of his sub being right there, within his grasp, it was almost too much to know that he was finally going to claim him.

His mouth slid down to John’s throat, and he set to work biting a stark red mark into the pale flesh there. John shuddered from head to foot, angling his head to better expose the line of his neck. Sherlock grinned against his skin, drawing up just enough to speak between sharp kisses. “Like that, do you? Want me to mark your skin? Everyone will see them, you know, see these pretty bruises that I’m leaving all over your neck...” He shifted incrementally, sucking a line of love bites onto the sub’s throat. Seeing the way the blood vessels burst at every point that he was attacking John’s skin, satisfaction burned through Sherlock’s veins like tongues of flame. He _needed_ to see his mate come utterly undone.

John’s hips bucked, rubbing his straining erection against his Dom’s thigh, practically humping him, and Sherlock growled approval at his raw neediness. “God, yes, Sherlock, mark me for anyone to see...please...!” His hands jerked against the taller man’s hold. “Christ, let me touch you, oh, please...”

The Dom laughed softly, his breath rushing hotly against John’s collarbone as he did. “Mmm, I don’t think so...I think I like this better. I want to take you to fucking pieces...mine, John. You are _mine_ , no one else will have you, no one will ever take you away from me....is that clear?”

He saw the look on John’s face, the mild confusion, and he smiled, moving his hand from the sub’s neck back to his waist, pushing his way under the coat and jumper to clench his fingers in the taut, muscular skin of John’s belly. He let his blunt fingernails dig in, leaving little crescent moons imprinted on the skin. The submissive keened brokenly, back arching and head thumping on the wall at the pleasure/pain.

Sherlock’s voice was molten steel. “Say it, John. Tell me there’s no one else. You will never belong to Jim Moriarty. Or to Greg Lestrade, or to my brother, or any other man.” It didn’t matter at that moment that most of the men they knew were all bonded, or straight, or both. It was about asserting his ownership, and John clearly fucking loved it.

“Tell me. That even after I waited too long, I am still all that you need or want. That this--” His fingers deftly, hurriedly yanked open the button and zipper of John’s jeans, drawing them open so that he could shove his fingers inside, seeking the hard curve of John’s cock, the hot slick of the pre-come gathering at the slit, and John cried out, his body writhing against the wall. “--This is your whole world. Only I could bring you off with just my touch...oh, don’t worry, John,” he added with a chuckle, at the distraught glance John shot him, “Not this time, not for our first.”

He leaned close, letting his lips trail over John’s ear, his tongue teasing the soft lobe. “Tonight, you won’t cum until my cock is buried inside of you, until I have taken you _completely_...and that is exactly how you want it, is it not?”

John  was shivering and moaning and trying desperately to break his hands free of Sherlock’s grasp. “Ye--yes, oh my God, yes, Sherlock,” he whimpered. “I just...I want...I _need_  for you to...just...want to be...yours....please let me...”

Sherlock smiled again, leaning back and thus breaking their kiss. “What do you want, John? Do you want me to be rough...?” To demonstrate his offer, he shoved the hem of the  jumper up higher, his fingers finding the hardened nub of John’s nipple, and he pinched down violently, twisting it deftly between his fingertips.

John let out a cry so loud and needy and wrecked, Sherlock couldn’t help bucking his own hips forward, letting his still-clothed cock slide against the exposed curve of his mate’s. He could smell him, the sweet tang of his submissive pheromones, which had teased Sherlock and permeated his life for months, now rolling over him in tidal waves as he continued to torment his sub’s nipples, loving the sound of his whimpers, raw and choked as he gasped Sherlock’s name.

Leaning in to kiss John’s lips, he whispered hotly into his mouth. “What do you need from me, John?”

Suddenly it was as if the frenzy and the panic simply drained from his mate’s body, and John slumped into his hold. Sherlock knew with certainty that if he released the sub’s wrists then, he would not drop them. He was surrendering control.

John’s voice was almost gone. “Let me kneel for you. Please...Sir.”

A dozen memories of adolescent lessons about the natures and the dynamic of Dominants and submissives, of soulmates versus casual partners, of commanding another person, of directing someone’s behavior and owning their body and mind...

Sherlock’s pulse was racing. There were a select few very significant gestures between partners. A sub knelt when he or she wanted to give themselves completely to the Dominant they were choosing. A Dom collared a sub who they were willing to take total, 24/7 responsibility for. And eventually, soulmates swore their bond-vows to each other, committing to a partnership in and out of the bedroom--whether or not the collar continued to play a part.

John was not asking for marriage or even a collar, though he was certainly entitled to them, given their current positions...Sherlock felt a self-deprecating smile cross his face. What John was asking him for tonight was, simply, exactly what they both needed.

His voice was gravelly and raw. “If you do, I won’t let you come back from this until I am done with you. I will explore and claim and mark every inch of you, John. Are you sure it’s wise to give in to me?”

A slight spark of mischief flashed in John’s eyes, and there was the doctor’s familiar sass, tugging at Sherlock’s heart in ways he didn’t understand. “I think, _Sir_ ,” John murmured, eyes glinting with carnal want, “...that _you_ are giving in to _me_ right now.”

Sherlock growled--genuinely growled, not liking the smug look on his submissive’s face--and spun them both, letting John go at the last second.

With a startled cry, John tumbled backwards, and promptly fell over the arm of the sofa, landing on his back on the cushions. Sherlock was on him immediately, dragging him up to divest him of his coat, and then his jumper, and then he set to work dragging that damned belt free of the loops.

He did not need to use words; John silently offered his hands, and Sherlock bound them together with the thick leather strap, letting out a low growl of pleasure at the sight of John, so exposed and restrained and at his mercy. “Beautiful,” he whispered, and John preened at the praise. “My beautiful, faithful mate.” His fingers trailed over John’s bare chest, teasing his overly-sensitized nipples, and he laughed as that tore a gasp from the other man.

Dropping down over him, straddling his hips, Sherlock resumed the task of biting large, savage bruises over John’s throat and chest, adding a few to his stomach for good measure. John watched this with actual pride in his eyes, breath hissing and catching at the delicious sting of Sherlock’s teeth nipping at him.

At some point as he worked, Sherlock had slid his hand back under the open fly of John’s jeans, palming his cock gently, teasingly. After a few more minutes of the sucking and stroking, John began to writhe again, panting the Dom’s name. “I’m--I’ll--I’m going to--cum, if you don’t stop--”

Sherlock drew back, laughing darkly. “Well, now, we can’t have that...I told you, that waits until I’ve had my fill of teasing you.” As John whined in protest, his mate just grinned again, then reached up and thrust two fingers into his mouth. “Suck,” Sherlock growled.

John relaxed his jaw obediently, allowing Sherlock to press down on his tongue, mimicking the action of fucking his mouth. The sound that John made around the invading digits was purely sexual, but there was a questioning look in his eyes that Sherlock recognized. He smiled ferally as he used his thumb to nudge at the sub’s chin, prompting him to seal his lips more tightly around the fingers, his tongue rubbing up against them lustfully.

“Just keeping you quiet until I’ve had my fun with you,” he said smugly, breathing out a laugh as John’s whole body arched under his, eyes rolling back in his head slightly at his words.

Keeping his hand pressed to John’s jaw--and trying not to let on how affected he was the sensation of that tongue, probing and nudging at the crevice between his fingers--Sherlock shifted his weight, resuming his previous foray into John’s pants. The way the sub moaned was enough to make him see stars, but he bit down hard on his bottom lip, focusing hard on bringing John right to the edge.

John was making noises, trying to speak, and Sherlock lessened the pressure on his tongue, curious. His mate’s voice was almost non-existent as he battled himself, fighting off his orgasm. “ _P--please, Sher_...”

The taller man smiled widely, leaning over him to let his words drop over John’s lips in hot gusts of breath. “Don’t fret. You’ll kneel for me before we’re done. I am looking forward to _that_ sight.”

John shuddered violently, his hips bucking off of the couch cushions pleadingly. Sherlock sat back on his haunches, not wanting to push him over the edge too soon by touching his cock again quite yet. He fumbled with the waistband of John’s jeans, dragging them over his hips and down, leaving the sub in just his dark red pants. Those did not last long, and John shivered eagerly as Sherlock left him naked, his pale eyes raking over the bared flesh of his mate.

Sherlock rolled up off the sofa, dragging John with him. The doctor caught himself quickly on his knees and forearms, a soft “Umf!” escaping him as he braced his upper body on his elbows. He tried to turn, to look back at his Dom, but Sherlock dropped his bare foot onto the doctor’s upper back, effectively pinning him to the floor. John gave a guttural groan that shot straight to Sherlock’s cock, making his breath hitch.

“You enjoy it when I put you in your place, don’t you John.” He did not voice it as a question, because he knew the answer, saw it in the yield of those gorgeous shoulders. “When I dismiss or ignore you...and now this, when I push you around. You love the thought of me giving you orders. Of me _possessing_ you.” As John mumbled helpless affirmations, Sherlock tugged his own painfully hard cock free from his trousers. Raising his hand, he spat in his palm, watching the way that John’s eyes went wide, his neck craning awkwardly as he attempted to see. Sherlock’s foot held him captive, his forearms, belly, hips and legs pressed to the hardwood floor.

Fisting himself roughly, letting his saliva-coated hand move over his shaft with a filthy, slick noise, Sherlock grinned down at his twitching mate. His foot flexed, and he could feel the responsive roll of John’s muscular back, the stretch and pull of his sturdy shoulders.

Still stroking his hand wetly over himself, he stepped to one side. Using his toes, he hooked his foot under John’s rib cage, nudging until John obeyed the unspoken command to roll onto his back. The submissive’s face was slack and wanton, full of need and trust and something else...the same look that Sherlock had seen there when they had a particularly exhilarating case, living high on the rush of danger.

John lifted his arms over his head, baring his throat and chest to Sherlock in a traditional, instinctive gesture of total submission. His voice cracked as he tried to beg. “Sher--Sir, please, please just touch me, I need to feel your hands on me, your fingers in--”

Sherlock laughed, cutting him off as effectively as if he’d gagged him. The Dom’s eyes glittered as he glanced to one side, a smirk flashing across his features as he found what he wanted. He nudged John’s extended arms with his foot, savoring the hints of light bruising barely visible under the edge of the leather binding John’s wrists. “Don’t move.”

John nodded mutely, and his smile softened appreciatively as he stepped away. John whimpered at the suddenness of his absence, but Sherlock hummed reassuringly, comforting him.

When Sherlock reappeared above him, John groaned aloud at the sight of the riding crop dangling from his mate’s pale, beautiful fingers. The groan escalated into a strained, broken sounding cry of pleasure as Sherlock swung the crop down, letting the broad tip caress teasingly over the length of John’s cock, smearing pre-come.

Then Sherlock spoke, and there was a coolness in his voice--not attacking John, but still aimed at him, enough that he shuddered at the urge it evoked in him to prostrate himself at the other man’s feet.

“Could anyone else do this to you, John? Could anyone else reduce you so completely to this, trembling with need, willing to obey anything I say...?"

John whimpered, his head shaking, too breathless with the thrill of seeing the riding crop to be able to speak. In all his wildest fantasies, he had never dared to dream that he might actually end up here, on the floor before this beautiful man, wondering if the crop would touch him with a sweet kiss of contact, or a sharp, stinging bite. He had seen Sherlock batter a corpse with the leather strap, drawing blood to the surface and breaking the skin; and he had seen him run it between his fingertips, stroking the glossy tool with the finesse and delicacy of a lover.

The crop slid up his bare skin, from his cock over his belly and chest and neck until it was brushing his cheek, and John quaked at the eroticism of Sherlock’s restrained strength. His hips bucked before he could stop them, lust and months of repression making him desperate.

The head of the crop flicked against one still-hyper-sensitive nipple, and John yelped, his whole body spasming. Sherlock’s gaze held his entranced as he leaned down, running the crop back and forth across John’s chest, then back up to taunt his lips again. His eyes were predatory.

“I saw your eyes, you know, the day that we met. In the lab at St. Bart’s. I mentioned my riding crop, just in passing, and you eyes...oh, John. You looked ready to come right that moment. You wanted _this_ , didn’t you?” He ran the crop down John’s body again. “You wanted a master. Someone who could take all of your strength, and pride, and dignity, and reduce you to his _bitch_...writhing and begging him to fuck you, hm?”

John’s mouth opened, ready to beg obligingly, and Sherlock was certain it would be extremely pretty to hear. But without hesitation he flicked the crop up, shoving the wide head of the strap into John’s mouth, once more planting his foot on John’s torso. Judging from the way John’s beautiful blue irises instantly vanished entirely behind his blown pupils, the assertive act was attractive.

He pressed his foot down, just hard enough to make John gasp. “I did not tell you to speak, John.”

The sub’s hips jerked up needfully at the denial, and Sherlock noted it with a salacious grin. “Oh, you are _so good_...so suited for taking whatever I dish out.”

He stood, withdrawing the crop--John grunted in protest as it slipped with a moist smack from his mouth--and set it aside. Grabbing the belt binding John’s arms, he hauled him to his feet, keeping one arm around his waist to support him as the sub’s knees trembled. Sherlock held him close, chests pressed together, letting John drop the circle of his arms around his neck. With one hand, he rubbed a soothing hand down John’s back. “Give me your hands again.”

John willingly withdrew a step, letting Sherlock unbuckle the belt. With gently guiding nudges of his fingers, Sherlock turned the submissive around, drawing his wrists back to cross at his lower back, and re-strapped them. John gave a happy little shiver as he felt Sherlock lean forward, his cupid’s bow lips brushing a faint kiss over the skin of his shoulder.

He circled around his sub, coming to a stop where he could face him fully, looking him in the eyes. “I know that this must feel very unexpected, and unfamiliar, after the way things have been between us all this time. I have no wish to make you unhappy, John...quite the opposite, in fact. So...you _have_ to tell me.”

John did not hesitate, and his voice was sure. “Don’t stop. Please. Just...don’t stop, Sherlock.”

His mate smiled at him, pleased. “On your knees.”

The doctor was kneeling before he fully registered the command, and pleasure coursed through him, raw and unfiltered. Standing over him, Sherlock finished unbuttoning his shirt and removed it, tossing it carelessly onto the sofa behind him. His trousers were still undone, hanging low and sensual on his hips, and John swallowed hard, shaking with the desire to lean forward.

The Dominant’s smile widened, his eyes sparking with something playful, and he carded a hand through John’s hair as he put the other back on his own cock, stroking it lightly as he stepped closer. “Would you like this?”

John took the inquiry as his permission, and jolted forward. His mouth enveloped Sherlock easily, taking him as deeply as he could. Having never done this before on another person--bored practicing as an unclaimed sub did _not_ compare, it would seem--he had expected the way that his throat closed against the intrusion, and he battled his gag reflex, determined to make it good for his partner.

Sherlock’s fingers flexed, tightening in his hair. “Do not hurt yourself, John. Don’t try to take more than you can.”

Obediently, if reluctantly, John slid back a little, but not all the way off. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, and was rewarded by the snap of Sherlock’s hips as he thrust forward reflexively, and the low moan he let out as he fucked into John’s mouth.

This only lasted a moment before Sherlock withdrew, and as John keened in protest, Sherlock snorted. “Becoming rather demanding again, aren’t you? There is a lesson plan to this whole thing, you know.” At John’s bewildered look, Sherlock snorted, grabbing the riding crop from the couch and walking back around John, standing behind him. John froze, suddenly feeling like he’d been caught in a sniper’s scope.

A low laugh answered the stiffening of his back. “Oh, now you remember just how I can get...you poor, doomed man.” The damp leather of the crop traced a line up the center of John’s back, and he shuddered, sweat beading on his forehead. He felt Sherlock step closer, and the taller man gently nudged his ankles apart, widening his legs. Knowing how his arse must look, on display for his mate this way, John arched slightly, performing.

The crop swung against his bare skin, hitting the flesh of his backside with a faint snap, and undoubtedly leaving a pale pink stripe. John cried out, his voice laced with shock and pleasure, completely oblivious to any possible pain. He could hear Sherlock practically purring with approval, and he preened at the idea that he was making his Dom proud.

“You look so good, John. I am pleased, knowing that I can reduce you to this, bring you to your knees, bound and helpless to my words, and my hands, and my whip...” Another swing, another snap and yelp, and then Sherlock’s fingers caressed the welts, comforting John’s reddened skin before dragging his nails over it, making John keen at the mixed signals of pain and pleasure that his brain must be receiving in excess.

Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble. “As I said, John, there’s a lesson plan. There is something that I need to impress upon you very distinctly, and be certain that you understand it utterly.” Sherlock straightened, again petting his hand through John’s now sweat-dampened hair, tugging his head back gently. The sub had no qualms about baring his throat, and he felt safer as he met Sherlock’s gaze, even upside down. He smiled faintly, hopefully.

Sherlock returned the smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. John had never seen such clear, certain self-assurance in the Dom’s face. Pleasure pulsed warmly through him at the almost-tangible feeling of their bond re-sparking deep within, being given a second chance to thrive.

“You are my mate, John. My submissive.” Sherlock’s voice had an unexpected edge to it, a conflicting edge of interwoven tenderness and steel. “You belong to _me_. I have not been good to you, and I know that; I would ask that you forgive me.”

He leaned over John, still clasping his hair tightly, and he brushed their lips together in a ghost of a kiss. “And if you can...then I intend to correct it. Today I felt something that I had never imagined I would experience in my personal life...today, I was jealous. Possessive. I saw another man coveting my property, and I wanted to eliminate any possibility in his mind that he would ever touch you.”

John must have been far too focused on his voice to track his hands, because he made a strangled half-gasp, half-moaning sound as Sherlock suddenly closed one hand snugly over the curve of his arse, squeezing and caressing the flesh with an intensity bordering on savagery.

“You are _mine_ , and I am going to imprint that fact into your mind tonight, John. I intend you work you open--” His dry fingertips brushed lightly over the crease of John’s arse, taunting him with the proximity to his entrance, and John heard himself make an undignified sort of squeak of anticipation, pushing his hindquarters back into the touch. Sherlock chuckled.

“--and when I have stretched you open nice and wide, made you slick and desperate for me to take you, lit your whole body on fire with how badly you need me, I will fuck you senseless, thoroughly enough to make it damn well clear to you, and to every unattached fucking Dom who looks your way, that you belong to someone, and that he does. Not. Share.” These words were accompanied by sharp, flat-palmed slaps to the arse that had John positively writhing, panting Sherlock’s name and begging him to _do it, just do it, please_.

Abruptly Sherlock dragged him to his feet, and John was swung around and deposited chest-down over the dining room table. Sherlock draped himself across his body for a single heartbeat, breathlessly murmuring in his ear, “Stay,” and then he was gone.

He did not mute his steps or quiet his actions as he clattered about for something in the kitchen, so John did not have time to build any kind of abandonment panic before he was suddenly back. Pressing against John from hips to feet, Sherlock leaned forward, presenting John with a small white tube. His breath caught as he recognized the label for a generic brand of lube.

Sherlock suddenly gripped his hips with his other hand, using a knee to push John’s legs open, and again he traced his finger dry over John’s exposed hole. When he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave. “Uncap it with your teeth, John. I need to prepare you.”

The moan John heard slip from his lips was embarrassingly whorish, but he couldn’t care less. He bit down tightly on the plastic rim of the cap, forcing it up, and rocked his hips pleadingly as Sherlock squirted a generous amount onto his own palm, letting some drip down over John’s cleft. He hissed at the chill, but Sherlock just murmured soothingly as he rubbed the slick fluid into the crease of John’s ass, circling his entrance without penetrating him. Teasing.

It took all of 30 seconds of this for John to arch his back, thrusting his hips back, and growl, “Please, sir, Sherlock, bloody--at least one finger, _please_...!”

Sherlock’s voice was outright mocking. “Now that just makes you sound like such a little cockslut, John, begging to be fingered open across the very table where we eat every day. Is that what you are? A slut?”

John moaned, shutting his eyes tightly at the way the demeaning words only inflamed his desire, rather than making him indignant. “If you told me to be a slut for you, I would,” was his reply, because it was the only thing that made sense. He was not a slut, he had waited all his life for his mate, who had then made him wait a few months more for this. But he was certainly desperate for him, no doubt about that.

Sherlock’s voice sounded utterly pleased. “And if I did want it? Is it all for me, John?”

The sub swore softly under his breath, then cried out as Sherlock thrust a single finger in, pushing in and out repeatedly until the ring of muscle relaxed, and he could move on to two. As he began to scissor John open, the smaller man struggled to find his words.

“Bloody-- _yes_ , of course it’s all you, you _sodding_ \--arrogant--oh, fuck!” He thrust back, meeting the hard fuck of Sherlock’s fingers, biting his lips till he bled as Sherlock worked up to three digits. “I’m _yours_ , sir, you bloody well know that!”

Sherlock’s voice was soft with lust and pride. “Only me? What of your new friend _Jim_?”

John’s voice fractured. “ _Jesus_ , Sher--sir, you’re bringing that up now?-- _Fuck_!” Sherlock’s hand thrust forward a little too roughly, and John rocked backward, begging for more. “Only you, Christ, only you, Sherlock, I am yours, _only bloody yours_!”

Satisfied by both the adamant declarations, and the level of preparation he had given his sub, Sherlock huffed in agreement and straightened up. He swung John around, letting him stumble back until his backside struck the kitchen table, this time. Beakers and pipets skittered and fell over, Sherlock’s latest experiment rattling precariously as he cornered John against the table’s edge, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. John moaned brokenly as his throbbing ass was ground against the wood, but it was a moan of sheer bliss.

Sherlock’s hands stroked hotly over him, and he leaned back to stare into John’s eyes. “I’m going to take you to bed now, John, and I am going to fuck you.”

John’s breath caught, everything outside of this moment, and the two of them, vanishing from his world. At this moment, he was in every way the submissive he had longed to be his entire life, and Sherlock was on fire, every bit the master he had needed all that time.

The words that slipped from his lips were familiar, the ones he would always say when Sherlock called him.

“Oh, God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone feels cheated not getting in on the actual fuckery, I have two excuses; one, I fell in love with the cut-away scene style of TamrynEradani's HOT and beautiful Destiel fic, "Carry On." Go read dat shit, no kidding, man. So I wanted to test how well I can write without writing every dirty detail.
> 
> That's unlikely to last, I like dirty details.
> 
> Excuse 2 is that it's 3am and that's with daylight savings time, so it's 4am to my weary bones.
> 
> Love and cookies to you all! XD


	7. Close Enough to Touch, Close Enough to Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to "define the relationship?" Or, you know, keep having sex. That too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I lied about getting this done quickly. Had to finish and present my senior paper, and then decided I didn't give a damn about school for the night. So I wrote. XD
> 
> And, um, yay, porn.

When John woke up to morning sunlight streaming across the bedroom, he experienced a single moment in which the whole world was utterly right. His body felt heavy from satisfaction, liquified by pleasure and deep sleep, and his mind was filled with peace.

And then he registered the cool stillness of the room, and instantly everything was wrong.

His eyes snapped open, and he rolled over to stare at the wide expanse of empty bed. The sheets were still indented from where Sherlock had slept, curled around John’s body in a spooning position. The blankets had been flung aside, rumpled against John’s side. Sherlock was gone.

Immediate panic welled up from deep within John, and it washed through him in tidal waves. He berated himself harshly as he forced himself to sit up, wincing as the rigorous activities from the night before caught up with him, making his very bones ache.

He’d known, he’d bloody known. He had submitted himself completely last night, truly convinced Sherlock finally, _finally_ wanted all the same things that he did. How could he have been so stupid?

Last night had not been about dominance. It had been Sherlock’s jealousy, his selfishness showing. He hadn’t wanted another Dom to take John--but he still didn’t want John himself. The sub pulled his knees up to his chest, anger and shame and grief flooding through him.

Abruptly he remembered that he was naked, still sticky with sweat and cum and oh God, he was just sitting there in the bed of the Dom who had fled rather than wake up with him. John flinched, scrambling to grab his phone from the bedside table and write a text.

**_Greg, can I stay with you tonight? It’s urgent. Please._ **

The response was prompt, thank God. _**Of course. You alright, mate? Need a pick up?**_

John sighed, feeling the prickle of humiliation that could not be avoided. **_Thanks, but no. See you later._**

Greg might have replied, but John forgot about his phone instantly when the front door to the flat slammed shut. His heart leapt into his throat, and he reflexively yanked the sheet up, covering himself as best he could.

Sherlock appeared in the bedroom doorway, and John’s chest tightened at the sight of him. His hair was still rumpled in a way that screamed sex, and he seemed to glow, much like John supposed he had when he’d woken. The detective wore a simple pair of black trousers with a casual button-down, and he was so disheveled and delicious-looking that it broke John’s heart.

Sherlock looked startled to find him awake. Guiltily he glanced down, and John blinked as he realized that the Dom was holding a take-away tray--which held two cups of what smelled amazingly like fresh coffee, and pastries from the shop downstairs. John raised his gaze to the other man’s questioningly.

The Dom smiled self-consciously, and it was far too endearing to be fair. “I thought I’d get us some breakfast, so we wouldn’t have to cook. I’m so sorry, John--I meant to be back in before you woke. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

John’s breath froze in his lungs. He had to swallow hard a few times to be able to speak. “You...you actually got us breakfast? For both of us?” He almost smiled. “While I slept?”

Sherlock Holmes looking sheepish was certainly an image John never wanted to forget. He looked so innocently apologetic, so unlike the savage Dominant who had fucked John into the mattress last night. The sub shuddered at the recollection, and the bruises he could still feel on his hips from where Sherlock had grabbed him, still thrusting from behind, and flipped John over onto his back, shoving his legs apart and pushing into his body once more. John smiled, and Sherlock returned the expression as he answered him.

“I...called my brother, actually.” At John’s obvious surprise, Sherlock sighed. “I was quite...disoriented, John. I think I panicked a little, when I woke up beside you. I was afraid you’d be angry with me, for my...possessiveness...last night. So I called Mycroft for advice.” He scowled. “And he’s never going to let me forget it, either. I would have called Lestrade, but his submissive did leave him. I couldn’t risk that happening.”

John started at those words, and Sherlock smiled again, timidly this time. “He talked me through my...my anger, of yesterday. He said that if I apologize, and let you tell me if I hurt you in any way, then what I felt--what we did--wasn’t wrong at all.” His eyes lit up with self-deprecating humor. “He also gave me one hell of an earful for needing a challenge to my claim on you before I was willing to act.”

“Well, he has you there,” John said drily, and he laughed softly as Sherlock wrinkled his nose almost childishly. Gratefully he accepted the coffee and take-away bag offered, sitting back against the headboard. His breath caught audibly as Sherlock kicked off his shoes and slid onto the bed beside him to eat. John swallowed heavily again.

“Did Mycroft tell you to get us the food?”

Sherlock chuckled, licking honey off of his fingers--John felt himself harden again almost instantly as he watched Sherlock’s tongue slide over his long fingers, and he gulped--and judging by the small grin playing at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, the Dom knew exactly what he was doing, the sod.

“No--well, yes, in a way. He said to be sure that you eat, and to keep you hydrated...and caffeine for the inevitable ‘talk.’” He made a face and took a gulp of his coffee. “Anthea brought this over. I didn’t actually leave, really--just got dressed and went outside to meet her.” Sherlock glanced at John’s bare torso, looking sheepish again--God, John could get used to that little smile. “I could have let her come up here, to avoid leaving you on your own--she’s a sub, and claimed, she wouldn’t make me feel threatened--but I just couldn’t. I didn’t want her to even scent you.”

John snorted into his coffee, blushing slightly. It was definitely true; the bedroom reeked of sex, and he could only imagine the heady mix of their pheromones--Dominant and submissive, a mated pair consummated at last--that likely permeated the rest of the flat. He licked his lips, imagining that he could still taste the smoky sweet flavor of Sherlock’s mouth. “Yeah...after last night, I can see you being defensive. Even with another sub.” He frowned. “Wait, is Anthea--”

“Mycroft’s mate.” Sherlock gathered more honey onto his finger, sucking it lightly, pretending not to hear John’s breath hiss out, or see his hand jerk with the longing to grab and lick those pale digits himself. “He advertised for an assistant several years ago, and she came to apply. Certainly shocked them both when she walked in and suddenly they just wanted to shag like rabbits.” Sherlock made a face. “I find them an odd couple. Very composed, and able to work together perfectly professionally, and yet utterly...in love. In their own stoic way.”

“Holmes family trait,” John muttered, then flushed darkly. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Sorry--” he began, but Sherlock cut him off, his voice amused.

“I do tend to show a stoic exterior regarding intimate matters, and I am sorry, John. Last night...” He paused, then met John’s gaze firmly, the flare of dominance in his glasz eyes making John shiver with lust. Sherlock glanced at John’s now-obvious erection, and he smiled slightly, almost gently. “Last night was wonderful. For me.”

John shot him a look. “For both of us, you twat, and don’t even pretend you weren’t bloody teasing me with that honey a minute ago.”

Sherlock’s smile widened into a rather taunting leer. He swiped up some more honey from his pastry, lapping at it lazily. “Don’t know what you mean, John.”

With a quiet growl, the sub grabbed his wrist, yanking it to his own mouth. He relished Sherlock’s little gasp of surprised arousal as he sucked down the first and second fingers, letting his tongue move slowly over every inch of salty/sweet skin. His eyes sank shut in the ecstasy of sharing this intimacy with his soulmate, being able to taste and explore him, his blood humming with longing for _more-closer-touch-me._

Sherlock watched the pleasure and the need chase each other across John's face, and he let out a shaky breath as he set their coffees aside. "John..." he began softly.

John opened his eyes, looking up into his Dom's face, still sucking slowly. Sherlock moaned faintly, shifting toward the center of the bed, closer to the sub.

"John, I know that we need to talk. But first...please, come here. Let me touch you."

John released his fingers with a wet pop, smiling as Sherlock’s eyes dilated further.

"Let you?" he echoed. "Just listening to your voice could reduce me to begging for you to touch me." He rolled into his knees, letting the sheet fall away. He did not feel self-conscious now.

"I'll beg if you want me to, Sherlock, or I'll take whatever you dish out in silence, I'll do whatever you tell me--"

Sherlock's hand sealed over his mouth, cutting off his breathless words. His eyes were clear and blue, burning with intense desire. "I know, John. I know I could do anything I like, and you'd take it all and just ask for more."

Using his grip on John's jaw, he pulled the sub down toward him, smirking at his blown-wide pupils.  "What would you let me do to you right now, John?" Idly one finger stroked along his sub’s cheek, then came to rest where he could feel John's pulse hammering in his throat. "How would you let me take you apart?"

John shivered, tilting his head so he could brush his lips against the hand caressing his face. "Whatever you want," he whispered, and his voice reverberated with his sincerity and need. "Do whatever you want to...Sir." Sherlock's hand tightened, and that was John's only warning before he was rolled over onto his back, the Dom's weight distributed over his. Sherlock's knee dropped between his sub's thighs, grinding against his straining cock.

John threw his head back, arching into the pressure and crying out a hoarse, broken attempt at Sherlock's name.  The lanky detective grinned, feral and raw. "So easily reduced to just moaning incoherently for me, aren’t you, John? Surely you can last longer than that..." John just gave a strangled groan in reply, and reached for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, trying to get it open without tearing it.  

Sherlock snarled, grabbing the sub's wrists and slamming them onto the bed, on either side of his face. John's eyes widened, but not in fear; his hips bucked wildly, reacting to the assertive gesture by seeking friction against his cock.  

With one knee, Sherlock pinned his legs at the thighs, immobilizing him. "John," he growled. "I believe you're missing the part where I. Fucking. Own. You. I decide when you get to touch, or be touched. You lay back, and do as you're told. What I tell you."

John whimpered, a pathetic needy sound that he felt vaguely embarrassed by. " _Oh_ ," was all he managed for a moment, and then: "Yes, sir."

Sherlock's eyes lit darkly. "You enjoy calling me that. Psychological submission arouses you, doesn’t it." John nodded weakly, then paused. Anticipating his question, Sherlock smiled again. "I know, John, I know that you still need the physical surrender as well. That, I am more than willing to take from you, rest assured."

His lips trailed down over John's bare chest, and he laved his tongue over his nipples until they were hard and red. John whimpered, thrusting his hips up.  Sherlock's voice was molten steel. "John...do not move your hands."

Then he straightened up, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt and flinging it aside. John was shaking with the longing to touch and explore and feel every bit of the pale skin suddenly exposed, but he obeyed as if his life depended on it.

Sherlock grabbed the lube from the bedside table before he returned to kissing the submissive, squeezing some onto his fingers and reaching to stroke John’s already throbbing cock even as he carefully teased at his mouth, his tongue probing in and mimicking what his prick would soon do to John’s body. The smaller man keened into the kiss, clenching his fingers around the iron rods of Sherlock’s headboard, desperate not to give in and disobey his Dom’s command.

The Dom’s eyes glinted like silver as they flicked up to John’s white-knuckled grip on the bed-frame. He chuckled softly. “Do you want me to restrain you, John?”

John licked his lips, staring up at his lover as he considered. He took a deep, shuddering breath, gasping as Sherlock’s fingers, still slick with lube, probed further down, teasing the puffy flesh of his hole, still loose and fucked-open from the night before. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“If...if I control myself...and obey...will you...let me....touch...you...once...you’re...inside me?”

Sherlock paused, and the look he gave John was so approving and pleased and wanting that it made the sub’s insides melt with pleasure and relief. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was rough.

“Yes, John. Keep your hands there until I say, and then you are free to touch me. And to come whenever you’re ready.”

From there it was a blur. Sherlock thrust his fingers in without warning, and John screamed out his mate’s name as he thrust down to meet the invasion, his own cock slapping wetly against his belly, pre-come sticking to his skin in long, ignored strands.

And then Sherlock was pushing his legs open, leaning over him to almost kiss him, just a teasing proximity that made it all that much sweeter as he finally pushed inside, spreading John open under his hands and his cock and that piercing, all-seeing gaze. John was swearing, pleading, moaning incoherently as he took the fucking eagerly, arching his hips to meet every wonderful thrust.

And then Sherlock was pressing down over him, tangled around him, panting in his ear, “Let go, John, let go and just be here, right here with me.”

John’s hands slid to tangle in the thick black curls, then down to grasp and claw at the beautiful expanse of creamy, sweat-slicked flesh across Sherlock’s back. As Sherlock’s thrusts became more erratic and needy, John began to clutch at him, groaning his name and begging helplessly for completion.

When he climaxed, his body clenched down hard around Sherlock, and he felt his mate shudder as he reached his own orgasm, thrusting hard and deep into John, giving him the most amazing sense of being taken and claimed completely.

As they lay quietly in the afterglow for several long, warm minutes, John took a deep breath, braving the potential risk of ruining the moment for something he knew he had to ask.

“Sherlock...what happens now? What does this mean for us?”

He felt the detective stiffen slightly, but he didn’t let himself get scared. Slowly Sherlock sat up, facing away from John as he considered his words.

“John, I...I’m not ready to commit to the bond yet. I’m sorry. I just--this is new and overwhelming, to even want this--” he looked back at John, at the way he lay stretched out in Sherlock’s bed, well-fucked and lazy. He half-smiled. “You’re such a novelty for me.

“I can’t imagine giving this up, or ever again telling you no, for that matter. But we need--we need to move carefully. I need time. I cannot bear the idea of losing you, though--I meant it when I said I won’t share. Can we--take it slowly? Are you willing to make that compromise with me?”

John reached out his hand, carefully touching his soulmate’s face with just his fingertips, his heart fluttering at the sudden freedom he felt to do so. “Yes,” he murmured. “I think I can--if--can you promise me that you’ll...be thinking about more? I...I want to believe we have a future.” He swallowed nervously. “I need that. You need time, I need reassurance.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, but it was far from anger that deepened the blue of his irises. He turned his face to kiss John’s exploring fingers. “Yes, John. We have a future. And a present,” he added, smiling slightly as he leaned down to kiss his mate tenderly.

John chuckled against the Dom’s lips. “So really, for the time being, all that’s changing is that we can handle all our fights and problems and sexual tension with a good hard shag? I think that will work out nicely.”

Sherlock was laughing as well, but the sound was lost against John’s skin as he pinned him to the bed, kissing him soundly.


	8. As the Lights Go Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good times, awkward times, possessiveness and...oh, not again, John, really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, heh, this was meant to be 85% plot, 10% mild smut, and 5% angst. But someone inquired about Sherlock's reaction to Greg and John texting and hell, these boys are like rabbits! ...so have some porn.
> 
> Also, I apologize for John being an angst angsting angster again. Silly boy. 
> 
> It gets worse. XD
> 
> A/N [Feb 23]: A reader was incredibly kind enough to note to me that, having originally written this with the mistaken idea that I had still kept John in the military, I'd left an army reference in the Murray scene. Corrected! He was a med school classmate. :)

"Oh, fuck me, _harder_..."

The consulting detective laughed breathlessly, leaning over to pant into John's ear, "Was that just swearing, John, or are you asking me?"

John grunted, pushing his hips back to meet Sherlock's brutal thrusts. "Not asking, you insufferable twat. Begging. Fuck me harder, bloody--"

Sherlock growled possessively, dragging John up onto his knees and wrapping an arm around his shoulders to press him tightly to his own chest, front to back. "Fuck you bloody, hm?" As John shuddered at the twist on his words, Sherlock laughed again. "And I certainly doubt you find me insufferable, John... It seems you would willingly suffer quite a lot at my hands. Wouldn't you?"

John tried to twist to see him, and gasped when Sherlock pushed him face down back into the mattress in response. "Yes," he groaned. "Christ, you know I would."

Sherlock’s voice deepened, darkened somehow, the way it always did when he became particularly possessive. "Say it, John," he growled. "Say that it's me you belong to."

The words overwhelmed John with arousal, and his voice emerged like a sob. "It’s you, Sherlock, I belong to you, always have, Christ, please..."

Sherlock's hips snapped forward savagely, and at the same instant his hand came down on John's already reddened arse with a ringing slap.

The pleasure was too intense, and John screamed out a mixture of profanity and Sherlock's name as he came, hard. He hadn't been given permission, and part of him felt guilty, but he was also just plain stunned that he had come without Sherlock touching his cock a single time.

At least during this round.

Sherlock's hips slowed, and John shivered as he realized the trouble he was in.

For a Dom about to deliver punishment, Sherlock's voice sounded far too pleased. "Did I tell you to come, John?"

John's whole body was heavy, and twitching with the after-shocks of his orgasm, but he did not dare refuse to answer. "No, Sher--Sir."

Long, self-assured fingers traced over the abused flesh of John's arse. "No. And yet you did."

John was shaking slightly, both from pleasure, and from submissive anxiety. "I'm sorry, sir," he murmured. "I didn't mean to disobey you. It just felt so good."

He could hear Sherlock's smile in his voice. "I know it does, pet. I want it to feel good for you, you know that...But not if it means you'll disobey me."

The Dominant's hips rolled lazily against his backside, making John gasp again. He sucked in a deep breath. "Punish me."

Sherlock went still. "Say it again, John."

The sub smiled, knowing he'd said the right thing. Sherlocks liked reassurances that John did want this, wanted him. That he needed his Dom to control him.

His voice was stronger, yet still compliant. "Please punish me for disobeying you, Sir." His thighs were twitching with the effort of keeping himself still, but he fought to hold his pose, presenting himself to his mate.

Sherlock's fingers tightened on his hips for a moment--and then he swung his hand, striking John once more, no doubt leaving a bruise in the shape of his long, elegant hand.

John bucked forward with a yelp, and Sherlock used his momentum, shoving him forward onto his stomach. Rolling him over onto his back, Sherlock's hand closed around John's spent and over-sensitive cock, eliciting a scream of pleasure/pain from his mate.

Sherlock's voice was ragged with lust. "And how would you like me to punish you, John?"

The submissive writhed under his touch, emitting broken sounding gasps and cries as he tried to form a coherent thought.

"I...want...whatever you'll...give me, Sherlock..."

Another harshly-tender squeeze, and Sherlock leaned over him, smiling coyly. "I know, John. You're so good for me." He reached up to run a hand through John's hair as the submissive preened at the praise. "You've always been so good for me, ever since the beginning."

Leaning back, Sherlock took hold of John's ankles, spreading him further, baring him to his Dom's hungry gaze. "I think, perhaps, I owe you a few exceptions for all that time I made you wait." His palms smoothed up John's thighs, and he smiled as his mate shivered happily.

"Would you prefer I come on you, or inside of you, John?"

John blinked slowly, surprised to be asked. He took a quick breath. "In me, sir?" he offered hesitantly.

Sherlock smirked, pulling out and making John gasp at the sudden emptiness. "That didn't sound particularly decisive, John, But I'll take it. And do the opposite, as your punishment."

John started to laugh at that, but it turned into a gasp of pleasure as Sherlock began stroking himself, and simultaneously thrust two fingers inside John. His head flung back, his fingers clenching in the sheets, and he shouted Sherlock's name as the Dom jerked himself off above him.

When the detective reached his climax, he twisted his hand, grazing John's prostate roughly and making him spasm into a second, dry orgasm as Sherlock came as well, hot cum splattering across his mate's belly and chest.

For a moment they simply stayed there, catching their breath and clutching each other. Then Sherlock huffed a soft laugh, reaching down to gather some of his own cum onto his fingers. Absently he swirled a pattern in translucent white on John's trembling stomach.

John grasped his wrist, raising his hand to roughly suck his dripping fingers into his mouth. Sherlock moaned, his eyes darkening as he watching John lap up the fluid eagerly, eyes fixed on his Dom. Without prompting Sherlock continued, feeding John until his torso was clean, albeit sticky.

Sherlock leaned down, kissing John and licking into his mouth, chasing his own fading flavor. "You are magnificent," he told his mate, pleased to see John's joy at the compliment.

 

 

 

 

* * *

The days following the introduction of sex to their relationship had been a pleasant blur of time spent in and out of bed. Sherlock found it intoxicating to finally touch John whenever he liked, and he freely acted on his impulses to guide and caress and issue soft commands, in and out of their flat.

John, for his part, positively flourished under his soulmate's attentions. He was more energetic and alert than ever, meeting Sherlock's needs and obeying his orders with an easy smile and a bounce in his step.

Mycroft had pointedly told Sherlock that he'd better take note of the change and continue to nourish John's submission and devotion. Lestrade had looked up as they entered the Yard the first day of their new arrangement, and he'd sat up straighter, barked a laugh, and yelled to Sally and Anderson that they owed him 10 quid each, Sherlock had finally done it.

Perplexingly, he'd also clapped John on the shoulder and said teasingly, "Urgent, eh? Looks like you'll be alright, mate." John had just flushed and refused to explain that exchange to Sherlock.

He oughtn't have bothered trying to hide it from his rather jealous Dominant. Sherlock didn't allow secrets.

One evening as John sat in his chair reading, his phone lit with a text where it lay next to Sherlock's on the table. Opening it--he didn't really consider there to be a distinction in property ownership anymore--he found the text history with Lestrade.

_9:17am_

**_Greg, can I stay with you tonight? It’s urgent. Please. -JW._ **

**_Of course. You alright, mate? Need a pick up? -GL._ **

**_Thanks, but no. See you later. ** _-JW._**_ **

_Today, 2:03pm_

**_Alright mate? ** _-GL._**_ **

**_Yeah why? ** _-JW._**_ **

_9:46pm_

**_Just making sure he's treating you right. ** _-GL._**_ **

Sherlock's lips thinned, and he tapped the phone on the table with a soft clunk. John didn't stir.

The Dom stood and moved to stand over John, holding the phone in one hand--and his crop in the other. His voice was low and measured when he spoke.

"Get on your knees, John."

His sub looked up at him in surprise. First his gaze jumped to the phone, and he looked bewildered.

Then his eyes went to the crop, and he looked ready to take Sherlock's cock that instant. The book was discarded and he slid to his knees easily.

Sherlock raised the phone, letting the conversation show on the screen. John's eyes widened fractionally.

Sherlock's voice was deceptively light. "Quite concerned about your welfare, our DI, isn't he?"

John tilted his head marginally, his voice unsteady as he replied. "He's...our friend. He cares."

Sherlock's lip curled as he let the phone drop, watching John catch it in his hands effortlessly. "Indeed. Seems he cares a lot for you. And you for him; you certainly trust him, if you were planning to run to him when you thought I didn't want you." He frowned, a thought suddenly striking him. "John--you didn't...did you go to Lestrade that first night, after I kissed you against the table?"

John's eyes leapt to the table, as if remembering, and without a thought Sherlock snapped the crop up to his cheek, producing a sharp smacking noise and a bright flush in the sub’s cheeks. John gasped and sat up straighter, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

The Dom took a deep breath. "Answer me."

"No." John's voice was soft, placating. Devoted. "Never, Sherlock. You're all I want, all I've ever wanted. I did turn to him when I was scared, but as a friend--platonic, I promise you. I wouldn't betray you."

He saw the resentment and anger still lingering in Sherlock's eyes, the way he glanced condemningly at the phone--and John leaned forward, sliding his hands around Sherlock's legs, his face resting against his lover’s stomach. It was a surrendering gesture, meant to show love, rather than sexual need.

It was perfect.

Sherlock's fingers wound through the submissive's hair, and he smiled. "You could do far worse than Greg Lestrade, you know, if you ever chose to leave me," he said softly, conversationally.

John hid a smile, knowing exactly how likely it was that Sherlock would ever allow his mate to leave him for another man. "Probably," he agreed pleasantly. "Shame that he's straight."

Sherlock chuckled at the joke, running a finger down the side of John's face, tracing his strong features. "Oh, you could turn him," he murmured, his voice oddly reverent as he studied the kneeling man.

John blushed, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Instinctively he nuzzled against Sherlock, needing the Dom's affirmation.

Sherlock’s voice was low. "I would never let you go, John."

The submissive smiled into the soft purple fabric of his shirt. "I know," he whispered. "Please, will you show me, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective let the crop trail lightly across the back of his mate’s shoulders. "Show you what, John?"

John hummed in pleasure, knowing that Sherlock just wanted to hear him say the words, as usual.

His voice crackled with arousal. "Show me that I'm yours."

Sherlock step back, smirking, and pointed the crop directly at John's chest. Understanding the unspoken command, John promptly stripped his shirt off.

Sherlocks smile was rather dangerous. "What are you wearing under your trousers, John?"

The sub smiled mischievously. "Nothing, sir."

"Good boy," Sherlock murmured, stroking one hand through John's hair. With the other, he raised the crop and let it trail sensuously down John's chest. As it grazed his nipples, the submissive shuddered with want.

"Belt and trousers open, if you please."

He obeyed without hesitation, earning more torturous pleasure from the crop head. A whimper slipped from him, making Sherlock laugh.

"So sensitive," he teased, before abruptly swinging the crop to flick brutally against Johns hardened nipples.

John bucked into the contact with a small yelp of pleasure and pain. He certainly loved it when Sherlock got rough with him, but there was always a reason.

Sure enough. "Greg Lestrade will never see you like this, will he, John? Nobody else ever will, of course...but in this particular instance, the point is...that _he_ will never have you. Do you understand?"

John's voice was scratchy with lust. "Yes, sir, I understand."

The dominant smiled deviously. "Do you think he understands, too?"

The implication of the question sent a full-body shuddered through John. "Uh," what all that he could manage to say.

Sherlock picked up John's discarded mobile, and scrolled through the contacts until he reached G. He pressed call.

John sucked in a shocked breath. "Sir--" he began hesitantly.

Sherlock snapped the crop up, smacking it with deceptive gentleness against Johns cheek. "When he answers," he said, as if John had not tried to speak. "You will not hold back. Any sound you wish to make, any sound I provoke from you, you will allow him to hear you. If you try to restrain yourself, I will push you harder. Is that clear?"

John shivered at the leashed aggression in his Dominant’s voice. "Yes, sir," he said, feeling his own submissive nature wash over him in soothing waves.

The line clicked. "John? You alright?"

John barely had to wait for the shoe to drop. The crop came down across his shoulders, sending waves of sweet fire through his nerves. He cried out in ecstasy, not trying to curb his voice, as ordered, despite his strong instinct to.

He could hear Greg speaking, asking what was going on, but the blows did not stop falling, and John could barely catch his breath to fuel the pleasured noises tumbling from his own lips.

Sherlock spoke above John's cries, only a slight edge to his voice indicating how affected he was, as well. "Just making a point, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's voice was tinged with a mixture of amusement and chagrin, his usual reaction to most of sherlock's behavior. "Right, well, perhaps you could prove your point without me next time?"

As the DI was speaking, Sherlock had opened his own trousers and freed his cock. John shot him a look, but did not argue, parting his lips obediently. Sherlock fucked hard into his open mouth, and neither Dom nor sub could contain their noises of pleasure as he set a punishing pace, thrusting into John's throat as deeply as he could.

Distantly John heard Greg yelling at  Sherlock, but neither of them paid him any more attention. John could only hope his friend would hang up, and leave them to their current pursuits.

* * *

Greg called Sherlock into the Yard a few days later, and John came along out of habit. He didn't pay much mind to the case they were discussing, too occupied by the way Sherlock kept one hand on his thigh as they sat across from Lestrade. Every few minutes he would trail his hand upward, curving his gloved palm around the line of John’s erection, squeezing it for the briefest of moments, and then drifting away. It was driving John mad. Twitching and trying not to gasp out loud, John did his best to remain quiet as his lover and master tormented him. Sherlock, for his part, seemed perfectly capable of studying the photographs and data, and tossing out observations to Lestrade about the crime scenes they were analyzing.

Abruptly Greg closed the folder with an impatient wave of his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the fingers of the other. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he said crossly. “I am this close to giving you an ASBO, you tosser. First that ridiculous call the other night, and now this. The whole Yard doesn’t need to smell John practically going into heat for you!”

John felt his face flood with heat and shame melted through him, realizing that his friend was right--he and Sherlock were too wrapped up in their new bubble of physical intimacy to remember that it would affect people around them. His head ducked as he tried desperately to disappear.

Greg’s voice was kinder. “John, sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you; it’s him being so insanely possessive and out of line in public--”

“Hardly out of line to assert my authority over my own mate,” Sherlock said with a smirk, his hand sliding up to rest at the back of John’s neck, instead--a much more socially accepted gesture, and it clearly put the DI at ease. He nodded, waving a hand to indicate dismissal, and Sherlock stood, tugging John along with him. Before they left, however, Sherlock turned back to Lestrade once more.

“And in case it wasn’t clear when it occurred, the phone call the other night was meant to accomplish a point. John is mine. No need for you to speak to him as if he were _your_ submissive, and I would strongly prefer that you refrained from doing so.”

Something shifted in Greg’s eyes, and John realized with a shock that the DI was regarding Sherlock with unreserved respect for a moment. One Dominant to another, they stared each other down--and then Greg nodded, leaning back and relaxing his posture, indicating through body language that he surrendered the point. “Quite right,” he said with a genuine smile. “Go on, you two.”

Sherlock flashed him a cool smile, then grasped John’s arm and guided him out of the building.

On the street, John turned to ask Sherlock about the interaction, but he was cut off as Sherlock abruptly pushed him into the alleyway beside Scotland Yard. John gasped a semi-coherent protest as he found himself suddenly pinned to an uneven brick wall, Sherlock’s gloved hands-- _oh, God, the leather, Christ, that felt good_ \--roaming beneath his jumper.

“Not...here...surely?” he panted, writhing against the Dom’s grip.

Sherlock’s voice was throaty in his ear. “Certainly here. I’ll respect his office, as a fellow Dominant with similar territorial preferences. But this is public space. I can fill the air with the scent that proves that you belong to me, and only me. And I intend to.”

John grumbled as he was manhandled around and slammed face-first against the bricks, but it was halfhearted at best. Sherlock knew perfectly well how much he loved his mate’s rough, aggressive claiming of his body.

This was about speed and possession, not seduction or pleasure. Sherlock opened John’s trousers swiftly, pushing them down and growling his approval at the lack of pants, which was becoming an unspoken rule between them. It took two strokes of his hand, still encased in those beautiful soft leather gloves, to bring John to full hardness; the sub was moaning and arching back within seconds, panting for Sherlock to fuck him. His mate had no intention of refusing him.

God knew where he got the lube from, but John hissed in anticipation as he felt Sherlock’s suddenly bare fingers, slick with the gooey substance, pushing into him _hard_ , thrusting until he could take two all the way to the knuckle, and then scissoring him open, stretching the muscle. John whimpered with need as he felt a third finger breach him, and then finally a fourth.

“Now, damn it, take me now,” he panted.

Sherlock snarled with pure alpha authority, tugging his fingers flee and slicking his cock. John felt the blunt head of his mate’s prick pushing at his entrance, and he wriggled backwards, trying to accept it quickly, his whole body one solid ache of _need-it-want-it-give-it-to-me-now_!

It was fast and explosive, and utterly perfect. Sherlock got an arm around John, his hand sliding down to stroke his mate in tandem with his thrusts, and the noises that emerged from John’s mouth were downright animalistic as he moved his hips forward and back, fucking into his lover’s fist, then back onto his prick. Far too quickly, he reached the edge. For a single heartbeat, he froze, wondering, waiting--

“Come, John, come for me,” Sherlock murmured in his ear. “I want to feel you clench down around me, milking my cock and begging me to fill you. Come now, luv.”

With a strangled cry, John obeyed, his body arching like a bowstring as he came, splattering cum across the wall and Sherlock’s pale hand, still tugging and twisting gently at his spurting cock. As promised, Sherlock gave a guttural groan as John’s orgasm triggered his own, and John whimpered his mate’s name blissfully as he felt the hot rush of the Dom’s release, deep inside him.

When they eventually pulled apart, straightening their clothes and exchanging dopey smirks, John realized with a jolt that he was rather fucked over if Sherlock ever decided that he wanted to backslide into how things used to be--because John was far too gone in love with him for that.

* * *

The next time Lestrade called them (“What?” Sherlock grunted, not slowing down as he fucked into John, keeping him pinned on his back with one hand on his chest. John giggled as he heard Greg snap something obscene at the sound of their flesh slapping together, but it wasn’t enough to make him end the call), he needed them at a crime scene. Apparently, Sherlock said as they dressed hurriedly, somehow still managing to get each other off in the process, it was now officially accurate to say they had a serial killer on their hands.

When they arrived at the scene, John paused, his stomach twisting a little. They were entering the alleyway from the opposite end, one street over, but he still knew where they were; at the far end, not 100 feet from where the yellow tape and flashing lights were, was the spot where they had fucked outside of the Yard, just the day before. They were literally on the Met’s back doorstep.

“Bit of a bold move, this, isn’t it?” he asked warily, and Sherlock grunted noncommittally.

When they reached the site of the body dump, John’s stomach dropped further at the sight of so much blood splashed everywhere. He looked at Greg, whose face was ashen. “How did no one see this happen?” he asked in horror.

The DI shrugged miserably. “God knows what people think of the things they see every day. I don’t know. This is....ugly.”

Sherlock made a cross ‘hmphing’ sound, striding over to investigate the body itself. John stood by Greg, huddled into his coat, and trying not to get nauseous at the stench of blood and viscera filling the air.

Something caught his eye, and he frowned, stepping to one side to peer at the lifeless shape at Sherlock’s feet. “Hang on...” he muttered, an alarm bell going off in his head.

Joining Sherlock beside the corpse--no one protested him approaching his mate, despite it being an active crime scene, he noted--John stopped, staring at the glinting metallic rectangle lying in a pool of drying blood beside what remained of the man’s head, which had been caved in by a severe blow--or several. John dropped to a crouch, staring hard at the words imprinted on the metal, unable to touch since he had no gloves on.

Behind him, he heard Sally’s voice as if from a great distance. “Got an ID from the blood sample--his name’s--”

“Bill Murray,” John interrupted her, standing too quickly and turning to face them, ignoring the way his head swam from the blood rush. “His name is--was--is--Lieutenant Bill Murray, former army nurse for the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” His voice caught, but he forced himself to finish. “He was--he trained with me. At St. Bart's.”

Sherlock was standing now, just behind him, and John sensed that the Dom was waiting for something--for him, he realized, a sign from him that he was ready to be touched. He half-turned, allowing Sherlock to grasp his arm firmly, and the pressure of his mate’s hand on him helped ground him. He raised his eyes back to Lestrade and Sally, who were staring at him with morbid concern.

Lestrade took a deep breath, then took one of the files Sally was carrying, and held it out. “John,” he said very softly, as if he were by someone’s hospital bed. “Do you know any of the other victims?”

John’s heart was pounding so hard he could hear it rushing in his ears, but his hand did not shake as he took the dark brown folder. Flipping it open, he quickly scanned the short list of names on the first page.

 

 

 

 

_Sarah Sawyer_

_Mary Morstan_

_Henry Knight_

_Ella Thompson_

He swallowed hard, struggling to speak. “These...these are all victims? All dead?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Killed by the same person who killed Murray?”

Greg’s voice was very soft. “Yes.”

John felt suddenly disembodied, as though he were floating above the scene, able to see the gory remains of a man he’d trained alongside in med school, and shared laughter, and pints of beer, and the hardships of life with; able to see the police milling about, as though this was a daily occurrence; able to see Sherlock watching him with deep concern.

“Yes,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I know all these names. I know these people. Knew.” He took a deep breath, willing his voice to hold out until he finished. “Worked with Sarah at a clinic for a bit, before I met Sherlock. Had a class with Mary, in uni. Met Henry at the office where I used to see a counselor about being an unattached sub.” He choked off briefly. “And Ella Thompson _was_ our counselor.” He lifted his gaze to meet Greg’s, knowing how horrified he must look. “Are these people dead because of me? Because they knew me?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp. “Why on earth would that be the case?”

Suddenly John twisted away from his mate’s touch, unexpectedly repulsed by any kind of affectionate contact. “God knows, but it is me, right?” He was addressing his questions to Lestrade. “I’m the common factor. They’re--someone is killing people I used to know, it’s some kind of message to me.”

“John--”

“ _No_ ,” he snapped at Sherlock, not allowing himself to care how his lover recoiled at the anger in his voice. “Don’t try and bloody coddle me, or make this better, you can’t! Somehow it’s my fault there’s five innocent people dead--Greg, fuck, we have to do something! What leads do you have?”

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it. John swung his gaze to Sally, but she dropped her eyes in the most submissive gesture he’d ever seen from her, then turned without a word and shuffled away from them. Greg took a small breath. “Look, John--”

“No,” he repeated shortly. “I’m not going to calm down, don’t try and psycho-dominate me or something, Greg. I need to help. I need to stop this.”

“John, down.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp and utterly commanding.

The past few weeks had reprogrammed John’s instincts without his even noticing, and he responded to his Dom reflexively. Dropping to his knees, his fists clenched as he found himself holding his breath, eyes downcast, waiting to know if he’d angered his master.

Sherlock reached out, touching his head with completely unanticipated gentleness. “John, I know you’re angry and upset, but this is not your job. I need you to remain calm and go--”

Somewhere in John’s head, as Sherlock spoke, a second voice kicked in, making him aware suddenly of the touch of the cool London air to his bare throat, where there was no collar; his bare wrists, where there was no cuff, or bracelet--and his chest suddenly tightened to the point of choking him. A small sob burst from him as he realized that he was kneeling in submission to a Dom who had not placed any formal claim on him, other than to daily use him for sexual gratification.

“ _No_ ,” he snarled, a third and final time. Sherlock fell silent, and both he and Greg stared at John in abject disbelief.

“Pardon?” Sherlock’s expression was unreadable, and suddenly, John was furious.

“No, I won’t calm down, or go trotting home like a good dog, or bow out and let you play police with the other Dominants and professionals. I won’t heel like your good boy, not when I’m _not_ yours, you keep saying so and get so _possessive_ and bloody violent and controlling, but _you won’t bloody claim me_.”

His voice rose, and several of the police officer had paused in their work to stare at the unfolding drama. John was on his feet now, facing Sherlock and shaking with rage. The Dominant did not back down, for his part, but merely watched John warily.

“I keep waiting, Sherlock, I keep taking everything you throw at me and being all I can be for you because we’ve been doing so much better, at least you’ve acknowledged that what we have is, well, something tangible and physical and real, but honestly? This is ridiculous. I can’t just be your compatible fuck buddy-- _don’t_ bloody look at me like that, that is exactly what I am to you! You just Dominate me when it’s sodding convenient for you, when you want sex--and knowing I can’t break free and go find someone who wants the emotional bond with me, as well as the physical. Well, I’m done, Sherlock, I am done being a toy.”

His voice was shaking, and he couldn’t bear to meet Sherlock’s gaze anymore. “It’s not fair to use me like this, to abuse your power as my...as my Dom. You’re my bloody mate, Sherlock, so stop acting like I’m a fun fucking fling that you can put aside when your real life starts. I can’t keep waiting for you to love me back.” He glanced at Greg, at Murray’s mangled remains and the forensic team staring avidly back at him. “Sorry, Greg,” he mumbled. “I...didn’t mean to get you off track.”

John looked back up at Sherlock, who took a hesitant step toward him, and he jerked away.

He heard Sherlock inhale, and his shoulders stiffened as Sherlock spoke, clearly stung, judging by the edge in his voice.

“John, that...that isn’t true. You are certainly not a fling to me. You’re...you’re my mate, and I’m not just saying that when we, when I--what we have is real. But this is not...obviously...the appropriate place to discuss--”

A strangled laugh tore from John, and Sherlock stopped, looking afraid. That was new. John turned away, and then he was walking down the alleyway, back to the main road.

He heard Sherlock call out to him, then again in a more panicked tone, and then he was yelling for John to come back.

John did not slow down.


	9. I'm a House of Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump and misery for John. Sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGWARNINGWARNING PLEASE BE WARNED, this involves NON-CON, as in SEXUAL, as in, well, rape. Yes. I'm sorry, so very sorry. NOT Johnlock, if that helps…
> 
> Also, fun fact, I have roughly a week to breathe before finals, in which not a thing is due, so I should get a few more chapters up! *crosses fingers* And THEN IT'S CHRISTMAS BREAK SO LOTS OF CHAPTERS YAY.
> 
> That is all.

Sherlock waited, but John did not come home.

The detective had distractedly told Lestrade what he could from the scene where Murray had been dumped, but he was clearly distressed. Eventually Lestrade, who was rather obviously just as worried about John, had told him to go wait for his sub. For once Sherlock was not irritated at another Dom's interference. He'd simply nodded, and left.

It had been too long, though. John had been gone all night, which wasn't so bad; he may have gone to Harry's, or indulged in a hotel room (unlikely), or perhaps even gone to Mycroft. Sherlock put off asking his brother, instinctively too afraid of how'd he would feel when it was confirmed that John was, in fact, missing.

It was around dawn the next day that his real trial began.

The unassuming ding of an incoming text message made him sit up in his armchair, unfolding his stiff limbs and picking up his mobile. The number was blocked. All that was included was a photo attachment.

When he tapped the image to expand it, Sherlock’'s stomach plummeted so quickly that he actually physically heaved, nausea sweeping through him. The phone clattered to the floor as he slid to his knees, seizing the small waste basket John had insisted on placing beneath the coffee table.

He hunched over it, body lurching as he tried to vomit. But his belly was empty.

When he stopped shaking and sweating enough to straighten onto his knees, Sherlock hesitantly picked the phone up, reopening the text.

The photo was darkly lit, but still very clear, take with a quality phone by a steady hand.

The room was nondescript, a grey backdrop hiding any telling features. But that was not what caught Sherlock's attention.

A black leather workbench was stood at an angle against the grey surface, clearly equipped with all the trappings and add-ons needed for D/s play. In a more pleasant context, Sherlock could certainly imagine deriving hours of fun from such paraphernalia with John.

But this was not that context.

It was, however, John who was strapped to the bench, completely nude, wide eyes fixed on the camera lens.

Sherlock felt distantly aware of his body, trembling and stiff from shoulders to feet. His fingers were clenching, and his breathing was short and harsh. Anger, dread, and fear flowed through him, gathering in a acidic flood of revulsion swirling in his veins. His body was positively burning with the need to attack, to reclaim, to retaliate against this violation of his property.

He forbade himself to think of John's stinging words, flung at him across the mangled remains of the sub's former friend, condemning him for his own unwillingness to actually claim his soulmate.

This was not really a challenge to his ownership, since he had refused to own anyone.

Another ding, and he found a second photo waiting. Sherlock's stomach rolled again, but he clenched his jaw and tapped on the dark square.

 _Oh, God, he wished he hadn't_.

The camera was at a lower angle in this one, clearly handheld from the shadow of the arm holding it out. John had turned his face away this time, but Sherlock could not miss the faint glisten of tears on the sub's tan face.

As if he'd needed the proof that John was not consenting to this.

Even more horrifying, though, than the sign of his mate's unhappiness, was the dildo that his captor had forced inside him.

His thighs were shining with lubricant, and there was terrible swelling and redness radiating out from the point of penetration. Sherlock was torn between crying for his mate's pain, and snarling in raw Dominant fury over it. It only marginally soothed him to see that his lover was completely unaroused by his abuse.

The next photo was a close up of John's face, and a black gloved hand was gripping his chin, forcing him to look at the camera. John's eyes were red from weeping, but there was also hatred and anger boiling in the beautiful blue depths, comforting Sherlock that his John was far from broken.

There was also the reddened outline of a handprint on the sub's cheek, hinting that some defiance on his part had gotten him a slap. Sherlock almost smiled with pride. Almost.

One more photo arrived. Sherlock opened it quickly, thinking this couldn't get worse.

Oh. He had been wrong.

Whoever was taking the photos had a remarkably steady hand with the camera, for someone jerking off with the other.

The black gloved hand visible in the image was squeezed around a flushed cock, but he had clearly just climaxed, and the product was splashed across John's stomach and thighs.

A video came through, and Sherlock shuddered in horrified anticipation as he opened it.

One gloved finger extended to gather a thick coating of cum, rose to show the camera, and then pushed roughly against John's tightly sealed lips.

Sherlock swore viciously as he watched, as this silent enemy forced John's mouth open, smearing cum messily across his cheeks and throat in the process. John gagged as some got in his mouth--and abruptly he tossed his head, teeth flashing as he tried to bite down.

There was an unexpectedly high pitched giggle, which startled Sherlock, as the hand was yanked away. Beyond the camera, a gun was cocked, and someone growled a warning, too low for Sherlock to make out the words. But from the way John jerked, and his eyes leapt toward that unseen entity filled with fear, Sherlock realized that he had been threatened already.

A minute part of him was again proud of his mate, for showing such defiance and resistance that his rapists had to threaten to shoot him to keep him subdued. But mostly, Sherlock was just furious.

The video had cut out after the sound of the gun cocking, but now one more photo popped up. Before he opened it, sherlock typed a hasty message.

_Tell me who you are. Where he is. And how you would prefer I kill you. SH._

He checked the last photo, and swore savagely. It was another close up of John's face, and his tormentor had used the cum splashed all over his torso to write across the openly-crying sub's cheeks and nose:

**Cum & play**

Without thinking he flipped to his contacts and dialed the first number listed.

"Sherlock, what--"

"Mycroft," he said curtly, cutting his brother off. "John has been taken, and is being, or recently has been, raped, with photos and video sent to my phone. Can you try to identify the number?"

"Of course."

The line clicked, and Sherlock had never been more grateful for his brother's direct, efficiency-focused approach to life. Only Mycroft could understand how much he needed this handled instantly and without emotional overreaction.

Yet.

One more new text. No photo this time. Just an address. Sherlock's heart began pounding. A swift GPS search told him it was a house listed as 'for sale' on the edge of the city.

He was tying his scarf when Mycroft called him back.

"Sherlock..." Never did good news start with Mycroft saying his name in that tone. "We have the name, but...well, he allowed us to track it, or we might not have been able to. He let us find him."

Sherlock closed his eyes, knowing where this was going.

"The name is James Moriarty."

Sherlock was out the door without a word.

***

Sherlock had deflected both Mycroft and Lestrade's offers to send backup in with him, asking instead that they stay nearby, waiting for his distress call. Grudgingly Lestrade agreed. Sherlock suspected that it took a lot for the other Dom to remember that John was not his to protect.

For his part, Sherlock was barely containing his fury as he approached the house. The door stood open to admit him.

He didn't have to bother searching. Aside from common sense telling him it would be somewhere out of sight, he could hear soft, muffled weeping from down the stairs leading to the basement. Quivering with rage and anxiety, Sherlock padded down the concrete steps.

The far side of the room had a grey tarp hung across it, seemingly redundant given that the wall was made of cinder blocks the same color, but Sherlock suspected it was to contain any mess; there was already some blood spatter forming small arcs, surrounding the bench itself.

John had not been moved from his position in the photographs. A blindfold had been added, as well as a IV that appeared to be for hydration, and the dildo removed. But he remained nude, bound, and crying.

Sherlock strode to him without pausing or looking around, not giving a damn if Moriarty attacked him. In fact, he welcomed the idea of a fist fight right then.

He brushed his fingertips across John's cheeks, wiping away the tears still sliding down. Immediately John quieted with a soft hiccup, his whole body going rigid. Sherlock held his breath.

When he spoke, John's voice was ragged from sobbing and, no doubt, pleading for mercy. "Sherlock?" he breathed.

The Dominant smiled weakly. "I'm here, John."

There was a soft sound of clapping, and Sherlock turned on his heel to face the other Dom.

Moriarty stepped out of the shadows on the other side of John’s bound form, smiling widely--too widely, his features stretched grotesquely by the expression.

"So glad you came, my dear. Your pet was getting rather dull to play with." He smirked, darting forward to John's side. One gloved finger trailed down the sub's side, caressing flesh that was more bruised and abraded than Sherlock had realized from the photos.

Sherlock bared his teeth, taking a step forward--then freezing as Moriarty almost lazily drew a black object from his pocket, flicking a switch on the side to trigger the electric sparking of a stun gun.

Sherlock remained perfectly still, breathing heavily. When he spoke, his voice was cold as steel. "Get away from my mate.”

Those black-as-pitch eyes leapt to his face, scorn twisting his features into a cruel parody of a smile. “Your _mate_ , Sherlock? Really?” Keeping his gaze locked with Sherlock’s Moriarty traced the hand not holding the stun gun down John’s jaw, making the submissive shudder and whimper in revulsion at the touch of the leather. Sherlock trembled with the overpowering need to intervene, but he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing John tortured by the electrical device.

Moriarty sneered, dropping his wandering hand to stroke John’s thigh. The sub flinched violently, and the movement caused his heaving chest to make contact with the still crackling stun gun. A terrible bleat of pain tore from him, making Sherlock snarl and take another step forward, raising one hand in helpless protest.

Laughing derisively, Moriarty reached lower, letting the flickering pulse of blue electricity graze John’s leg where his fingers had been. John screamed as the flesh burned instantly, and there was a faint scent of singed flesh and hair. Immediately Sherlock stepped back, lifting his hands as if in surrender, and Moriarty nodded approvingly, withdrawing the device. His eyes smouldered like live embers in the dim light of the basement.

“He isn’t your mate, Sherlock. He isn’t even your submissive, is he? He’s just...your _fuck toy_ , or at least that's what he was crying about earlier, before...well, before he realized that I wasn’t really the right person to run to.”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted and squirmed with an ugly rush of jealousy. “He--came to you?”

A grin of pure, sadistic malice lit the Irishman’s features. “Oh yes, my dear. Sweet little Johnny finally called on me for the emotional support you just weren’t offering.” His tone was so mocking, so dismissive of John, it made Sherlock ache with the desire to destroy him, to force his harsh words back down his throat.

“You know, I didn’t think it would take nearly so long to seduce him away from you, with his weak, insipid mind...ordinary little twat that he is,” Moriarty said, so conversationally, petting and prodding over the point on John’s thigh where he had just scarred him. John recoiled, both from the touch and the words, and fresh tears coursed down from under the blindfold. Moriarty beamed down at him, though of course the sub couldn’t see him.

“I never thought you might actually humor his petty, uselessly _human_ needs. Never thought you’d give him the fucking he was begging for...I really thought, despite your little pissing contest display when I turned up at that crime scene, that he would be calling me any day now. That he’d need someone to talk to, a Dom who could help him...give him what he needed.” Smirking lasciviously, he suddenly closed his fist around John’s limp cock, squeezing it viciously.

John made a strangled shrieking sound, writhing against his bonds so desperately that they began slicing into his wrists and ankles, and blood began to trickle down. Sherlock heard a disturbing whimper leave his own lips.

“Stop, just _stop it_ , don’t fucking touch him--he’s _mine_ \--”

“Is he?” Moriarty taunted him, reaching down further and thrusting two fingers at once into John’s abused body. The sub’s mouth fell open in a shrill squeal of agony that cut off as he suddenly seemed to run out of oxygen, his whole body going taut and arching against his restraints, trying futilely to escape from the penetration.

Sherlock was shaking harder than he could ever remember in his life, but his mind was oddly blank. Loathing so pure and hot that it blazed through him like white flames was leaving him feeling unnaturally clear, as if his singular purpose was the destruction of this enemy, this monster who dared to rape his soulmate right in front of him.

His voice sounded alien in his own ears, cutting through John’s almost-soundless scream like a knife through flesh. “You will die for touching him.”

Moriarty withdrew his hand, and John collapsed, going so still that for a heartbeat, Sherlock thought he must be unconscious. The Irishman chuckled, reaching out to press his fingers down over the ugly bruising that covered John’s hip, and down his right leg. His fingers left a smear of fresh blood, and Sherlock’s eyes jumped to the apex of his thighs, where more blood was visibly oozing from beneath his flaccid prick. His fists clenched at his sides.

“Not broken yet,” Moriarty murmured with a vile little grin at John’s slack face. “Just bashed up a bit.” He turned his gaze back to Sherlock, and stared him down even as his hands continued moving. One maintained his hold on the stun gun, keeping Sherlock at bay purely out of fear of what any further electric shock might do to John. With the other, Moriarty reached over to fiddle idly with the IV, giggling high and softly as Sherlock anxiously tracked that motion.

“Have you worked it out yet, Sherlock, _why_ this is happening? Why the sad little sub, so devoted to a Dom who never wanted him, has to suffer all of this?” The look in his eyes had become a little manic, and Sherlock’s breath quickened, sensing that something was about to break.

“Perhaps you’ll agree that death is the better option for poor Johnny, in the end,” Moriarty said softly, lip curling in scorn as he glanced down at John’s silent form. “What else is there for him?”

“Me,” Sherlock snapped. “He belongs to me, and I will _destroy you_ for touching him.” He took another step forward, almost not caring what happened between that move, and when he had completely choked the life out of the Irishman.

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed again, the sound cold and devoid of any humanity. “No, you won’t,” he said with a savage grin, turning away from the IV, and switching off the stun gun. His eyes fixed on Sherlock, black and bottomless and more dangerous than anything Sherlock had ever seen. “You, my dear, do not actually care--oh it’s alright, Johnny’s not particularly aware of anything at the moment, you won’t break his pathetic little heart...again. You’re only here because your pride as a Dominant is being threatened, not because you care about the life of this _pathetic_ little creature.” His gaze flickered back to John, nothing but contempt in his features. “Because Sherlock Holmes does not do sentiment.”

Something snapped inside Sherlock, and he knew with perfect clarity that he had to act now, or he would lose John before Moriarty was finished.

He lunged forward, letting his center of gravity dip in order to sweep a leg out and drop the Irishman. He heard a muffled curse, felt the other man scrambling to roll onto his knees, and he remembered the stun gun--he couldn’t let him regain his balance. Ruthlessly he kicked out, savoring the solid thud of his foot slamming into what felt like the rib cage, and hearing the resulting snarl of rage and pain.

Then Moriarty bucked upwards, sending them both tumbling, and for a single second Sherlock was unable to orient himself--

\--and then his hands found purchase in short, dark hair, he could feel the smooth-shaven jaw line, and then he had Moriarty by the throat, his fingers closing tightly around the column of the other man’s neck. They rolled once more, and he was above him, pinning the Irishman to the stone floor, his grip tightening as he let his weight spread evenly over his opponent, trapping him. He could feel something hard digging into his knee, something in the man’s pocket, and he fumbled to retrieve the stun gun, flinging it out of reach before wrapping both hands solidly around Moriarty’s airway.

For a single moment, their gazes locked, and Sherlock believed he could do this, could murder the man who had abducted, tortured, and raped his mate, and be finished with him forever.

And then Moriarty’s eyes shifted, sliding over to stare at John. Sherlock did not dare turn to look, but he felt it--an unnatural stillness, something terribly wrong entering the air, as if he could feel death slipping into the room with them. He froze, his hands remaining locked around Moriarty’s throat, but loosening fractionally; just enough for the man to drag in a long, ragged breath, which hissed back out in a cold, damning whisper.

“The IV--he’s receiving the second round now.” A breath of laughter wheezed out, and Sherlock shuddered at the kind of monster he was confronted by; trapped and facing death, yet still taunting him. He risked a glance at the IV bag, but there was nothing to indicate what kind of poisons were entering his lover’s body.

Moriarty’s voice was hoarse, but still so infuriatingly triumphant. “Sodium thiopental...five grams.” Sherlock’s heart began slamming against his ribs. Moriarty continued, his grin widening as the other Dom’s grip on his neck slackened further, horror making him numb. “Pancuronium bromide...one hundred milligrams.” Sherlock’s fingers spasmed, then stayed loose, and Moriarty coughed and spoke again, his tone laced with mockery. “Potassium chloride...”

“One hundred milliequivalents.” Sherlock’s voice was a rasp. He was familiar with the doses of lethal injection. And those were just the legally authorized amounts. If Moriarty was lying, John could receiving an instantaneous overdose that moment.

“Time to choose, Sherlock...” The words were whispered, almost sing-song, and utterly without fear. For all that he was taunting Sherlock for not caring about John, it seemed Moriarty knew exactly what Sherlock would do.

The consulting detective swore viciously, tightening his hands again to the point that he could feel the air cut off in the trachea, and he stared directly into Moriarty’s face. The Irishman finally looked vaguely concerned, his eyes widening fractionally at the lack of oxygen, his pupils expanding rapidly from the automatic rush of adrenaline. For a moment Sherlock held his ground, letting Moriarty believe he could choose to kill, to let John die if it meant destroying this threat.

And then Moriarty called his bluff, smirking even as his body twitched with the need to fight for air. “Only seconds left on the clock, Sherlock...”

Sherlock bared his teeth, hatred radiating through him. “For you as well.”

A broken huff of laughter, and then his voice was all but silent as his lungs emptied. “But would you forgive yourself if you fail to save him?”

Sherlock could never say whether his rational side might have had more to say, or handled the situation differently. It would never matter. His Dominant instincts kicked in, because the fact was that his mate was dying less than ten feet from him, and nothing would come between him and his duty to protect his sub. Not even his desire for the death of the man who was killing John.

He released his grip on Moriarty’s throat, but he swung his fist without hesitation, taking a quick burst of satisfaction from the ugly crunch of the cartilage in his nose breaking. Then he was on his feet, rushing to John’s side and disconnecting the IV before any more could be dispersed. He had no means of removing what had already entered John’s blood, but he could still save him, he _had to still be able to save him_.

He was too focused to hear the escape, but a quick glance over his shoulder, as he pressed his mobile to his ear, confirmed that Moriarty had vanished. He did not allow himself to think on it yet.

The distant sound of sirens assured him that Lestrade’s men had been close, as promised, and an ambulance was among them.

Letting the mobile slip from his nerveless hand, he turned back to John. Removing the blindfold, his fingers stroked helplessly over the weathered, handsome features of the man who was dying because he’d made the mistake of believing in Sherlock. It had not been Sherlock who tortured or drugged him, but it was unreservedly his doing that John was now fading away in front of him.

His throat was tight, and his eyes stung. Every bruise and cut and burn that he could see on the submissive’s body, felt as if it were sliced and beaten into his own flesh. Distantly he recognized the weight pressing inside his chest; it was the sensation he’d experienced when his father had died, and although he’d been just as stoic of a child as he was as an adult, he had felt grief, sharp and poignant. He had known what it meant to say goodbye.

As footsteps thundered down the steps, and the medics barked instructions regarding getting John onto a gurney and flushing out his bloodstream--how had they known? Had Sherlock remembered to tell Lestrade that John was dying?--he leaned down to press his forehead against John’s for just a heartbeat, feeling himself break inside. Lestrade had him by the arm, was pulling him away gently, and he went, knowing that he had to let go. There was work to be done.

Though he had never felt less like playing...the game, once more, was on.


	10. And Lead Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss writing smut after all this.
> 
> Still, it will pick up a bit from here on…sort of…we're over the hill, anyway. And sorry for how short this one is, when I storyboard, I always cut chapters off at the perfect drama spots, never realizing how brief the scene is.
> 
> Please, please, comments really help me!

_“I’m sorry, I know this is out of the blue--”_

_“John, it’s fine! Delighted that you called. I was worried, after I saw you the other day--”_

_“Oh--that. Don’t...don’t worry. I’m sorry he was such a prick.”_

_“Was he the one you mentioned? The reluctant Dom?”_

_“...yeah. That was Sherlock.”_

_“How delightful...”_

* * *

_His arm feels numb. Something sharp had pricked him, and now his whole left shoulder feels numb and unpleasantly heavy. So do his eyes; are they closed? Is that why it’s black? No, he can feel his lashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks. Why is it so dark?_

_Fabric. It’s a blindfold. He thrashes his head a little, but he can’t dislodge it._

_Something brushes his cheek, something light and cool and--they’re fingers. But they’re too cold, and too soft--oh. More fabric. They’re gloved._

_He tries to speak, but his voice rasps and dies. He swallows, coughs, tries again. No luck._

_What feels like a straw touches his lips, and with only a second’s hesitation, he latches onto it and suckes. Water. He swallows it down hastily._

_“Good, Johnny, that’s it.”_

_Oh, God. He whimpers. “Why...?”_

_Jim’s voice is light and kind, but there is an edge of something very dangerous there, which John has never heard before. “There is an answer to that, Johnny-boy, but I won’t be sharing it just yet. You’ll just have to sit tight.” A cold, amused chuckle. “Not that you have any choice.”_

_John tugs, trying to move away, and realizes with horror that he is bound, wrists and ankles. His heart sinks._

_Cool air brushes over his body, and he shudders violently as he realizes-- “Where are my clothes?”_

_Jim sounds distracted, as if John’s predicament is not important. “Gone. I have plans for your body, little sub.”_

_John whimpers again, and now terror washes through him in waves he knows the Dom can scent. There is a smile in Jim’s voice._

_“Yes, Johnny. You are in for some very rough treatment.” The gloved fingers trail over his cheek, and he shakes his head desperately, stammering out pleas._

_“Hush.” The command is so soft, yet firm. The gloved fingers stroke back up to his face, hook under the blindfold, and tug it off. John blinks helplessly in the unexpected brightness of a wide grey room, biting back another terrified sound as he finds Jim leaning over him._

_The Dom smiles in a parody of tenderness, running his hand with cruel gentleness down John’s body, over his pounding heart, heaving chest, and disinterested cock. The light fondling makes John recoil, a mangled noise of unhappiness breaking free. He is crying, and he hates it, but he can’t stop the tears._

_“Please...don’t...”_

_Those bottomless black eyes drift to his, but there is none of the good-humored, smiling man John met in a supermarket. This is a monster._

_There is a second man present, who approaches them to hand two items to Jim, and John emits an ugly sob as he sees that one is a long, curved black dildo. “No,” he gasps, straining away from the madman, feeling the flesh at his wrists and ankles stretch and tear against the cuffs._

_Jim raises the other object--a plain black smart phone--and John hears the click of the camera. He freezes, bewildered. Jim’s smile is feral._

_“Collecting some fun-filled footage of your...situation, Johnny-boy. I think we both know someone who might...shall we say...get a rise out of it.”_

_John opens his mouth, intending to protest, to plead, to say whatever it will take to make this stop--he’ll promise Jim anything he asks for, it isn’t as if Sherlock cares what he does, he can avoid this pain if he just obeys--but his voice dies in his throat as he hears the tell-tale squirt of a bottle of lube, what is--_

_And then he is in agony, a cool leather-clad hand pushing his thighs farther apart than the cuffs already do, and the other shoving the now-slick dildo inside him. He is unstretched, unprepared, not a drop of lube or even a single finger applied to make his body receptive. It is tight, and it is hell._

_He can hear Jim’s voice distantly, speaking his name, goading him--and the hateful click of the camera phone snapping evidence of his rape. John’s head falls back, refusing to meet the soulless black gaze, or the unfeeling glint of the camera eye._

_* * *_

_When it has been silent for some time, and John has remained alone and crying in the darkness of the blindfold, he becomes aware that someone else is near him. It is not Jim, though he can still sense his rapist’s presence. It isn’t the other one, either, the one with the gun and the empty eyes. It is someone new, and they are very angry._

_Footsteps. A brush of air. And then bare, cool fingers graze his cheek, and he would know that touch anywhere._

_“Sherlock,” he gets out, his voice broken, from pain and from relief. Perhaps he will survive._

_* * *_

_It hurts. John can’t see, but he is in such pain. Now that he has heard Sherlock’s voice, knows that his Dom and mate has not abandoned him to this psychopath, he can feel everything again, and it is awful. His shoulder is inflamed. His ribs throb. From his chest to his feet, he feels the ache of bruises, and the sting of cuts. His right leg feels as if a stone has shattered it. And between his thighs, there is only fire. It feels as if Moriarty had lubed a knife blade and fucked him with it, and ripped his guts out when it withdrew._

_There is a crackle of electricity somewhere above him, and Sherlock’s voice. Fingers press against his wounded side, and he spasms--and hits something hot and brutal, a stun gun, his chest is on fire, his heart is racing, and he cries out in misery._

_Before that pain has faded, the burning strikes his thigh, and he is crying again. Broken, humiliated, and desperate for death._

_The hated gloved hand closes tightly around his limp cock, and John makes a disgusting squealing sound as the grip tightens too much--even if he were aroused, this would hurt, and in his current pain, it is nothing but agony._

_The fingers slip lower, and then he is burning from the inside out, screaming, screaming in his head, where is Sherlock?_

_The hand withdraws, and there is stillness and heated words. The needle in his arm is pressed on, checking that it’s secure. Cold dread slides through him at the fact that he has no idea what’s entering his blood._

_There is noise, scuffling. It seems distant, somehow, and he realized that he is getting unbearably cold, and then hot, and then cold. More voices. The sound of a nose breaking._

_Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock? John cannot make his tongue work. He is floating._

_Sherlock._

* * *

John’s eyes snapped open and he tried to cry out, wanting to call the detective’s name, but no sound emerged. He coughed feebly, his chest burning, but there was no sound, no comforting rush of air. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His hand scrambled to his face, and he felt a tube protruding, _oh, God_ , there was a bloody intubation line down his throat. Without a thought he seized it, dry-heaving his way into a blistering coughing fit as he yanked on it, dragging it out. _God, but that hurt_.

Something pulled at his hand as he tossed the tubing aside, and he stiffened when he saw an IV needle taped to the back of his right hand. The broken memory came together of an IV that he knew with utter certainty was slowly killing him. With a growl, he reached to yank that out, as well.

“Don’t, John. Leave it.”

He jumped as Sherlock stepped into the hospital room, looking as darkly forbidding and beautiful and surreal as ever. He was pale, though, unusually so, and his eyes looked haunted--but he was thankfully uninjured. John smiled at him faintly.

“Glad you’re alright.”

Sherlock’s brow jumped, and John blushed. “I mean--I know, I’d--said some harsh things. Before. But, perspective, alright? You aren’t dead. That’s...that’s brilliant.” He swallowed, staring into his Dom’s fathomless blue gaze. “Why do you look so pissed?”

His mate gave him a disbelieving look. “You were raped and nearly murdered in front of me, John.”

At the blunt words, John felt his insides twist unpleasantly, a nasty twinge in the offended organs. He coughed, his mouth suddenly painfully dry.

“I...yes, I was. But you saved me.” He looked up, uncertainly searching his mate’s face. “You saved me, Sherlock. We’re both alright now. Aren’t we?”

The Dominant turned away, gazing stoically out the window across from John’s bed. “You should never have been in such danger. I cannot apologize to you enough for letting that happen to you, John.” He glanced at his sub, and then away again. “I’m sorry.”

John’s stomach squeezed warningly as he realized that Sherlock was feeling guilty. “No,” he said hotly. “No, it was not your fault. I trusted him. I went willingly. I fucked up.”

“Got fucked up, is more accurate.” Sherlock’s voice was full of bitterness, and John flinched. His mate looked repentant. “I’m sorry, I should not have said that so harshly. I’m sorry, John.” He stepped forward, his eyes settling sadly on John’s face. “I let you down in the worst way.”

John pushed himself upright, ignoring the bursting fireworks of agony that pulsed through his left shoulder, hips, and right leg. “ _No_ ,” he said angrily. “No, stop it! This was Moriarty, not you. You did not let me down! Stop talking this way, Sherlock, please. Please...I forgive you, does that help to hear? Let’s just...let’s get out of here, and go home.”

Sherlock met his gaze, and John felt nausea swell though him at the sudden indifference in those beautiful glasz eyes. His lover looked at him like a stranger.

He reached out feebly, relieved when Sherlock slowly extended his own hand to take John’s. Tugging the detective close, he tried to pull him down into a kiss.

Sherlock pulled his hand free, stepping away. John’s whole body locked, fear and rejection making his voice faint. “What--what is it, Sherlock, tell me, please.”

The Dom looked so grave and cold, so much like he had the day that they’d met, when he had looked into his soulmate’s eyes and refused him. “This is the reason why I never allowed myself to become entangled in sentiment, you know. This is why relationships are a mistake, why people are not worth more than a professional interest or involvement.” His eyes flickered over John, taking in his injuries, then away again. “It’s why I never wanted to find my--find you."

John gasped, feeling punched in the gut. He’d heard it all before, but still, things had changed. Hadn’t they? “But we--you’ve--it’s all different, now, isn’t it, we’re--Sherlock--”

The pale cupid’s bow lips curved up in a self-deprecating smirk. “I should not have allowed it to happen. I have done terrible, and unnecessary damage to both of us. I should have released you from any expectations, and allowed you to have your own life, far away from the contamination of my work. I am sorry, John.” He folded his hands stiffly behind his back. “I cannot risk the safety of others any further. It was wrong of me to involve you so intimately. Perhaps at all. Forgive me.”

John’s head was spinning, and he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. “Sherlock, what...what are you saying? What does this mean?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and John saw the steel wall close over his expression. And then the detective turned, and began to walk out of the room.

The sound that tore out of John was inhuman, broken and wounded. He saw Sherlock’s shoulders flex, a slight falter in his step, and he leaned forward, completely disregarding the pain that lanced through his torso and leg as he strained toward the departing man.

“So all of it was just talk, then? All of it, just posturing and strutting like a bloody show hound, proving what a powerful Dom you are, how you could possess me without any kind of emotion involved?” His voice was acidic with heartbreak. “Do you know that you’ve called me ‘luv,’ in the heat of the moment? More than once.” His expression twisted as Sherlock paused at the door, head half-tilted to hear him.

“Guess that meant nothing to you, either. But you did warn me of that, didn’t you? S’my own fault, I know.” His fingers clenched in the sheets, and his voice broke on the next sentence. “You said you’d never let me go, you--you promised. I know you said it was just sex for now, but you promised me. You’re a fucking liar, Sherlock Holmes.”

The Dom’s shoulders slumped, and he ducked his head. He could hear John sniffling, knew his mate was crying softly. His stomach clenched, but he inhaled hard and forced himself to speak clearly, calmly.

“Goodbye, John.”

He began walking again, forcing his legs to carry him out of the hospital room. His mind dragged him back again to the day they met, and the horrible moment he’d walked out of the lab, leaving his soulmate abandoned and confused.

He forced himself to pretend he couldn’t hear the sound of John weeping openly, calling out his name, and begging him not to leave him.


	11. I Won't Get Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't handle aftermath well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter probably looks short in AO3 format…I keep overestimating how much writing will fill out the storyboard I wrote. XD
> 
> Also, Sherlock kind of danced to the edge of a building and took off flying by turning into a dragon in my head, so I really…am not keeping track of how in-character he is anymore. >.

 

_One Day Later_

**8:47am--Incoming Call**

“I don’t wish to discuss this.”

“I imagine not, little brother, but we’re certainly going to.”

“I could just hang up.”

“Oh, did you want to come by and speak in person?”

“...sod off.”

“Very mature. Honestly, though, Sherlock...please, explain.”

“...I’m sure he told you why. You went to see him during visiting hours today?”

“I went last night, when the nurses phoned his emergency contact number. He was...rather distraught.”

“His emergency--but that would be me.”

“You didn’t answer. I assume because if you did recognize the hospital number, you knew it was about him. They made the logical leap to phone me.”

“Ah.”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft’s voice dropped, and Sherlock could easily picture his elder brother, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and finger, leaning idly against his nondescript black umbrella on the pavement outside the hospital. “Please tell me why.”

“You know what happened.”

“I also know that you have, for the last several weeks, been hard-pressed to leave the bedroom with that man, and that you were well on your way to surrendering to the inevitable and committing to a wholesome bond with your soulmate.” His voice had become sharp by the last word, and he took a breath, obviously composing himself.

“You need him, Sherlock.”

“I need him safe,” Sherlock corrected him. “And that will never be possible as long as I am working.” He heard the inhalation, and his next words were almost snarled. “And if you tell me I ought to choose some archaic definition of destiny and romance over the work that I am damn well-suited for and enjoy doing, I will tell you to shove--”

“Be quiet,” Mycroft snapped, and Sherlock obeyed, rather stunned. He took a deep breath, staring out the window of 221B and feeling irrationally young and childlike. His eyes closed.

“Sherlock.” His brother sounded weary. “You...you know that I would never tell you to abandon your work. It is who you are. But fate is never wrong, you know. John is your soulmate, and that means that he is perfectly equipped to be your partner and companion, in work, and in love.”

Sherlock set his jaw. “I’m finished having this conversation. Notify me when there are leads regarding Moriarty.”

He hung up, not wanting to hear another word of reprimand. His heart was locked back away where it belonged, and no one--not even John--would make him reconsider this decision.

 

_One Week Later_

**9:32am**

Progress? SH

**9:37am**

Of a sort. John has moved in with D.I. Lestrade for the time being. He is assisting with the hunt for Moriarty, as best he can. His recovery remains slow. MH

**9:38am**

That is not what I asked and you fucking know it. SH

**9:41am**

The language is hardly necessary. You wanted to know about the case. That’s the progress. Lestrade is handling it. Go back to being miserable alone. MH

Sherlock discarded his mobile with a snarl, refusing to put up with his brother. It was well and good for someone who hated “leg work,” and whose mate was most likely slipping in and out of his office as they texted, handing him his tea with a kiss and then vanishing back to her bloody laptop. Hell, even if Mycroft were ever far enough in the field for someone to find out about Anthea, Sherlock doubted they’d achieve anything. If you took the petite brunette away from her bloody Blackberry or Mycroft, she could cause some serious damage.

But that was different. Mycroft was a politician. No matter his connections or the ways they proved valuable to Sherlock’s work, the fact remained that he was removed from the real violence of it all. No enemy of the Holmes brothers ever physically touched him. Anthea’s bond did not put her in active danger every moment that she was his.

Sherlock realized with a confused jolt that he had grasped his riding crop on instinct, his frustration and loneliness making him want to lash out. He stared at the black leather, his head filling with powerful, hateful memories of John...leaning against the back of the sofa, legs spread, back straight and proud, head bowed in deference to his Dom, accepting the teasing, sensual blows with murmured count and soft-spoken, “Thank you, Sir...”

Sherlock swore, flinging the crop at the wall and flinging himself into the armchair, seizing his laptop. John’s scent drifted around him, reminding him that he had automatically fallen into John’s chair. Fists clenching, he went to his email. A reply awaited him, from his brief request for a progress report earlier that morning.

**9:58am**

_S--_

_Yes, yes, here’s the case file so far, you bloody tosser. We have next to nothing, Sherlock, it’s useless. You’re much likelier than we are to track him down..._

_-GL_

**10:03am**

_S--_

_Uh...we also have this. It’s a detailed statement of speech and behavioral patterns Moriarty exhibited, don’t know how much of it would be acting and how much was really him. But we thought it might help._

_-GL_

“We.” So John really was helping. Sherlock assumed he was still at Greg’s home (he refused to think of that as John’s home as well), so he was likely emailing Greg as well. The D.I. must feel as if he were in the middle of a lovers’ quarrel. Sherlock might have smiled, if it weren’t all his own doing. Otherwise, John might be lying on the sofa behind him, dictating those speech and behavioral details for him to pass on to Greg.

His fists flexed again, and he closed his eyes briefly, forbidding himself to glance backwards out of any ridiculous, stupid longing. John was not there, and he never would be again. That was a fact. That was what he wanted.

There was a ping of incoming mail.

**10:07am**

_S--_

_Your brother’s just phoned me. In case it wasn’t clear...it would probably be better if you didn’t come into the station for a while. Sorry, mate._

_-GL_

Well, fuck you as well, Mycroft.

 

_Three Weeks Later_

**11:23am--Outgoing Call**

“This is Lestrade.”

“I’ve emailed you a detailed analysis of what you were able to send me. Including a rough estimation of how much of Jo---that description would be authentic to Moriarty, not acting.”

“Cheers. I’ll text you if it gives us any leads.”

“Good.” There was a pause, and Greg didn’t hang up, knowing Sherlock had more to say. The Dom huffed out a breath, irritated with the utter humanness of it all.

“Is he--safe?”

Greg sounded exhausted. “As he can be, I s’pose. He’s....well, he’s not doing bloody well. I can do my best, but he’s only safe from the outside world. You have to know that. He isn’t safe from himself.”

Sherlock sucked in a horrified breath. “He hasn’t--”

“Tried anything? No. I monitor when he takes his meds, so no chance of overdose. I binned all my booze--which hurts me, too, by the way, you owe me--so none of that. He hasn’t quite got mobility back, either, so I’m not worried about razors or ropes, yet. Once he can walk about on his own no problem, I may do a more thorough cleanup.”

Sherlock felt nauseous again. “You honestly think--”

“Don’t start, you ponce. Of course he’s breaking apart inside, you gave him legitimate hope and then ripped it out of his hands and stormed off with it. And haven’t looked back since. I hear him at night, you know, the nightmares waking him. They’re a mix of Moriarty and you.”

“Me?” His horror is impossible to hide.

“‘Course. He dreams about the torture, I hear that plenty, but it’s often enough he’s calling your name, or begging you not to go. I hear him crying most nights. I went in once--oh, stuff it up your arse!” he added sharply, as Sherlock hissed in envious indignation. “You do _not_ get to be a jealous sod now, you prick. You damn well broke his heart, so leave off.” He must’ve lost his wrath, because his voice softened then. “I went in, asked what I could do, and he just looked at me with those bloody tears in his eyes and said, ‘Turn back the clock?’”

Sherlock leaned back against his desk, staring sightlessly at the wall of useless information he’d assembled as he hunted for Moriarty. “He regrets taking the risk of sleeping with me.”

Greg’s voice was pitying. “He regrets bloody meeting you.”

The words stabbed, and Sherlock hated himself for allowing them to. He started to mutter something, anything, to get out of this conversation, when Greg suddenly added, “Oh, and I’d never tell you this if there was a chance you might let him know, but--we’ve been receiving anonymous letters. Death threats. For John."

Sherlock hissed out an angry breath. “Why doesn’t he know that? And why haven’t _I_ seen them?”

“There are no prints, nothing to identify the sender or origin, and he doesn’t need the panic. We assume they’re Moriarty.” There was a long silence as Sherlock waited, and Greg finally relented. “Alright, I’ll fax you copies. Maybe they’re ruddy codes for you, we’ve no way to know if he’s aware you tossed John out.”

“I did _not_ \--”

“Fuck off, that’s exactly what you bloody did. He won’t even let his sister see him--not that I blame him, poor girl’s boozed to hell. But still. You broke his heart and his trust, and now he won’t see his own family, and he’s barely recovering physically because he won’t let himself emotionally. He’s...dying inside.”

Sherlock turned his phone off without bothering to actually end the call. That was all he could functionally think to do in order to shut off the flow of voices, taunting him and reminding him of his failure, both to protect John, and to find Moriarty and end this.

_You are a Dominant. And whether you like it or not, you have a responsibility to provide for your submissive, and to care for his needs and treat him with kindness and authority._

_He’d jump off a fucking building for you._

_...if you don’t work at a soulmate bond...it will rot. I know they tell you it doesn’t go away unless one of you dies, but the thing is, not every pair wants to stick it out. And it’s possible to let your soulmate get away from you. John will be free to do as he pleases, same as if you were dead. Cept you won’t be. And you and I both know that you won’t be able to bear it, but you’ll have to pretend to, because you brought it on yourself._

_He isn’t your mate. He isn’t even your submissive, is he? You don‘t actually care. Because Sherlock Holmes does not do sentiment._

 

_Two Months After_

Sherlock sank into his armchair, his whole being frozen with uncertainty and anger. He wanted to end this bewildering confusion, to eliminate the tangible enemy and move on--but was that even remotely a possibility? Even when he destroyed Moriarty--and he _would_ , make no doubt of that--what was there to move on to?

The doorbell rang, and he heard Mrs. Hudson answer. Soft voices, and then footsteps climbing the steps. He knew that pace, the measured movements, and he didn’t bother looking up as Mrs. Hudon rapped lightly and opened the door to admit Mike Stamford.

The sub looked apologetic but concerned as he entered, keeping his coat hung over his arm. It was an instinctive gesture, indicating a willingness to leave if he was offending. Sherlock smashed back the ice that had begun to build in his mind, and focused his gaze on the other man.

“What is it, Mike?”

Relief flooded the sub’s eyes, and he stepped forward, sinking into John’s chair. Sherlock concealed his reaction, flicking his fingers toward the tea he’d made but never drunk; it was John’s preferred brand.

Stamford took a hesitant small sip, smiling weakly. “Your mobile was off.” When Sherlock nodded disinterestedly, the sub sighed and leaned forward, discarding the cold tea. “Look, Sherlock...I...there’s a lot of folks worried for you. I wanted to--to see how you are.”

Sherlock did not look at him.

“Molly said she’s--been to the D.I.’s. To see Jo--to see him. Said he’s getting better, but there will be lasting physical damage.” He saw the flicker in Sherlock’s expression and looked remorseful. “Sorry. I thought Mycroft would’ve told you.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “No. As John is no longer a part of my life, Mycroft sees no reason to inform me of his doings.” Saying John’s name bloody hurt. This was ridiculous.

Stamford looked pained. “He...you...why does it have to be this way, Sherlock?”

The Dom glanced at him, then back at the fireplace. “It’s complicated, Mike. I don’t want to address it, now, if you don’t mind.”

It was obvious Stamford did mind, but he was a true sub, with a strong respect for the detective, and he wasn’t going to cross the line of their designations.

Slowly he stood, gazing long and thoughtfully at Sherlock. “I don’t know...I don’t know if you regret knowing him,” he said softly, and Sherlock knew that someone--perhaps Greg, or Molly, must have told Stamford that John wished they’d never met. “I hope you find the bastard that hurt him so badly. And kill him.”

From a pacifist submissive, those were strong words. Sherlock half smiled.

Stamford sounded oddly choked for a moment. “But either way...I’m sorry. If--if introducing you two, like I did--if it was a mistake on my part. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have done it.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet the sub’s then, and he knew how world-weary he must look, saw it reflected in Stamford’s wide, kind eyes--the eyes of yet another man who knows what it is to be safe and secure in love.

And then he imagined another pair of eyes, blue eyes that he knows so well, widened and tear-filled as he was brutally assaulted and abused by a madman who merely used him to torment his foolish Dom.

His voice was lifeless. “All relationships are mistakes, Mike, even just flatmates. Wasn’t your fault any of this came of it.”

He heard the footsteps retreat, and he sighed, going slowly to the kitchen. Feeling detached from everything, he went to brew more tea, wanting a smell that he associated with John to fill the flat.

He’d already gone through the whole box.

He had no leads, no other cases, and most of the people he’d normally irritate when he was bored were gone, or not speaking to him. Sighing in irritation, he went for his coat, needing the distraction of going out, if only to get some air.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of a surprisingly large variety of tea options at the local shop that two things occurred to him simultaneously; one, this was the market John had always gone to, and two, it was highly likely that John was walking again, and possibly able to make outings such as grocery runs by himself.

Sherlock turned around, clutching the box of John’s favorite brand of tea, and found himself face-to-face with his soulmate.


	12. Forget to Remind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, it's awkward, and there are nasty emotions involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buggering hell, John's headspace is difficult right now. To be honest, I projected my own feelings in order to get the necessary result. John's thoughts about the incident and about Sherlock's abandonment are adjusted versions of things I went through two years ago. So…hopefully it's coherent, and not too dark?
> 
> Please comment! I LOVE seeing stuff in my inbox.

John Watson was broken.

He was making a valiant effort to conceal it, but it was as clear to Sherlock as if he wore a sign around his neck. Pale and drawn from lack of sleep, eyes shadowed from exhaustion and dull with pain. John’s shoulders were hunched, and he was keeping his left hand close to his side, as if instinctively shielding himself.

But what filled Sherlock with the most shame and regret was the tight grip John was keeping on a cane in his right hand.

From the way his weight was distributed more or less evenly, and he didn't seem to be leaning too heavily on the cane as he stared at Sherlock, John didn’t seem particularly conscious of the injury. Sherlock estimated that it was at least partly psychosomatic, but he could hardly begrudge the sub that. He knew that if he saw him walk--

John closed the last few feet between them, and Sherlock flinched visibly at the severe limp in his mate's gait. Favoring the right leg, John seemed barely able to maintain his composure as he took those last few steps, drawing alongside Sherlock in front of the tea display.

The sub's eyes darkened as he flicked a glance at Sherlock and took in his pained expression, before he returned to gazing blankly at the brightly colored boxes of Earl Grey.

"Looks worse than it is," he said, and it was probably supposed to sound light-hearted, but his voice...his voice was dead. Sherlock wanted to recoil.

"Doubtful," he said softly, staring at John's stoic, sealed off expression. "You...you were badly hurt, John."

There was a flash of something then, something raw and damaged that made Sherlock's own insides burn, sympathetic pain for what his mate was reliving. He had encountered dozens of patients suffering from PTSD, and he had on occasion helped Lestrade with cases that involved victims of subdrop and psychological scarring. But no work experience or steeling of his nerves could have even remotely prepared him for the piercing grief of seeing those emotions in the eyes of someone who mattered so much to him. Sherlock slammed every defense possible into place, determined not to crack.

If John could see the intense inner battle waging in Sherlock’s mind, he did not acknowledge it. Almost mechanically, he reached for his preferred tea, then froze, staring the box already in Sherlock’s hand.

The Dom felt exposed, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Flushing with something bizarrely akin to guilt, he offered the box to John, wondering how he could possibly explain that he had walked away from John--at a time when the sub most needed the firm hand and commanding guidance of his Dominant--and yet he couldn’t seem to let John’s presence bleed out of his daily life.

John ignored his outstretched hand, selecting a different brand of tea.

Sherlock winced slightly, and returned the box he’d been holding to its place on the shelf. His mind jumped to finding a reason, any reason, to keep John standing there next to him.

“How are you?” he asked softly, and immediately hated himself. Stupidest question imaginable. _Fine and dandy, just recovering from torture, rape, and watching you turn your back and walk out when I needed you most desperately, thanks_.

John gave him a look so cold and disgusted it made his throat close off. “I’m walking,” the sub said icily. “That’s a nice development.” His eyes jumped around a bit, pupils dilating slightly as someone passed the aisle they stood in, talking loudly. Sherlock could sense the rising panic, the fight-or-flight reflex that John must be repressing violently. He wanted to ask if the nightmares had lessened at all.

“Are you...are you in physical therapy?” he tried again, hating himself even more.

The submissive’s lips thinned at Sherlock’s continued effort to engage him, and when he did settle his gaze on the Dom for a moment, there was condemnation and scorn there. But he was too twitchy to even keep eye contact; Sherlock could see that it was taking all of John’s willpower to remain still and endure their interaction, rather than flee.

“Did you ever find him?” The question stunned Sherlock, because it was not him asking. At his obvious confusion, John made a face of extreme distaste. “Moriarty.” The name fell from his mouth like poison being spat out. Sherlock might have read it only as anger--had he not also seen the flicker of fear in John’s eyes, the slight twitch of his mutilated left shoulder, the tremor in the same hand, and the way he squeezed his cane, as though reassuring himself the support was still there. Just the thought of the psychopath who had tormented him was enough to nearly break the sub, but he was fighting to appear strong in front of Sherlock.

But not to make him proud. No, now, John was fighting not to let Sherlock see how much he himself had wounded and disappointed his mate. Neither of them felt any pride now.

“I...Gr--Lestrade implied that he was handling it. With your help.” It was meant to be a statement, but it emerged like a question.

Something passed over John’s face, something bitterly sad and angry. “He pulled me off the search. Aside from my lack of police clearance, he didn’t think it was good for me. Emotionally.” His gaze flickered around again, and Sherlock could see that his mask of calm was beginning to fracture. If he continued with their conversation much longer, he would likely break down. “So now I just sit at home and wait for news.”

Conflicting feelings of anger-- _I will find him, John, he will never touch you again, I swear it_ \--jealousy-- _Why is that home now, you don’t belong with Greg Lestrade, I know I can’t have you, but that is not your home_ \--and longing raged through the detective. He wanted so desperately to pull John close and comfort him. It was so dangerous, far too dangerous, but God, how he wanted to.

He broke a little, and his voice was fainter, weaker than normal. “I miss you, John.”

The sub’s eyes latched onto him for just a moment, his gaze solid and unblinking and...horribly blank and unforgiving. There was only dull nothingness.

“Bit late for that, isn’t it.”

He had turned his back on the Dom, he was limping away, and Sherlock felt his heart sink somewhere into the vicinity of his stomach as he watched the physical symptoms that his mind could effortlessly catalogue. The hobble of a bruised right leg, possibly a hairline-fracture; knees spread just a degree more than was natural, accommodating healing internal injuries caused by sodomy; left shoulder a few degrees lower than the right, the result of muscular dystrophy (a combination of the side effects from the sedative/paralytic used to render him unconscious, and the lack of effective mobility regained thus far--indicating that he refused to attend any physical therapy that may have been assigned him).

Conclusion: John Watson was, indeed, broken, inside and out--and he did not seem to have any intention of remedying his condition.

Sherlock left without purchasing the tea, pressing his mobile against his ear as he hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street. Lestrade answered on the third ring, and Sherlock interrupted his greeting impatiently. “I need every piece of information you have on Moriarty, no matter how trivial or confidential you consider it to be. I also need the original copies of the letters and threats sent to John--not addressed to him directly, I take it?”

Greg sounded exhausted. “No, sent to the station. I’ll box them with the rest and have it sent to you by courier. But Sherlock--please, no heroics? Keep me in the loop?”

“I’ll do my best,” Sherlock answered shortly--unsure himself, even, if that meant his best to solve the case, or to accept help in the process.

* * *

Greg sat back at his desk in his home office, scrubbing his hands over his face in frustration. Something must’ve set Sherlock off, but he couldn’t imagine what--

Jumping up, he darted down the hallway and checked his spare bedroom, then cursed when he found it empty. “Bloody hell, John...” he muttered, returning to the kitchen to see--ah, yeah, out of tea again. Bloody impossible man. Couldn’t just lie low and ask for someone to fetch groceries.

The door opened and John entered, a bag under his arm. Seeing Greg’s reproachful look, he shrugged sheepishly, then winced as the motion jostled his left shoulder. “Sorry. Needed tea and didn’t want to wait. And I needed the air.”

“Hmph,” was his only reply, and John realized that Sherlock must’ve called the D.I. He sighed and vanished into the kitchen without comment.

* * *

With the thin wall between the kitchen and the sitting room dividing them, John’s shoulders slumped. Suddenly drained, he set aside the shop bag and sank into one of the chairs of the small breakfast table and let his head drop into his hands, his eyes drifting closed.

Unbidden, images flashed to the surface of his thoughts, and as always, he could no more shake them than he could force himself to wake from the nightmares. The memories were impossible to run from.

Cold slid up his spine, and he could still feel the touch of leather gloves sliding over his body, tormenting him where a lover’s touch would be teasing, making him despise and fear the sensations that were once pleasurable and gentle. A day before, and it had been Sherlock, caressing his skin and murmuring in his ear, bringing him right to the edge with a few whispered sentences, describing in beautiful, graphic detail what he wanted to do to John--and it was as much his voice as it was the wicked words that could reduce John to a quivering mass of nerves, aching for release.

And then Moriarty happened.

A voice just as soft and sensual, but far higher, colder, and less seductive to his ears, taunting him with the same promises of carnal exploration and conquest. His skin breaking out in a cold sweat and his voice breaking from too much screaming as he was touched, groped, penetrated--

John jerked to his feet with a cry of despair, accidentally knocking the chair over. He heard abrupt movement in the next room and hurriedly called out, “No, Greg, don’t get up. Just--uh, just startled myself, I’m alright.”

He heard the stark disbelief in his friend’s voice. “Mhm. I’m here if you need me.”

John sank back into the chair, exhausted and frustrated with himself. His whole life, he had convinced himself that even though bad things were of course unavoidable in life, nothing would ever happen to him personally that was too much for him to handle. No pain or trauma would ever break his mind.

Perhaps this was the universe's way of correcting him.

He folded his arms on the table, and dropped his head onto them. In some distant corner of his mind, he knew it was not just the trauma that had him so utterly defeated.

The first night that he had been awake in the hospital, he had lain there in the dark, listening to Mycroft Holmes and Greg speak outside his room. He hadn't caught the entire conversation, but the words 'subdrop' and 'suicide risk' had been exchanged.

Of course, that was hardly a surprise to him. He was plenty familiar with subdrop; he had trained as a doctor, after all. He had just never imagined that he would ever go through it himself.

Though to fair, considering what kind of man Sherlock Holmes was, John would not have been surprised if it had occurred once or twice once during the relationship.

But that was not a problem any more. He never would be in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

A choked off sob lodged itself in his throat. He was in drop, and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing that Greg, or Mycroft, or anyone could do for him. They could put him in counselling for PTSD, and a therapist would stare at him and ask questions about what Moriarty had done to him; or they could send him to a support group for abandoned subs, who would cry for him, and hold his hand as he described the shattering moment when Sherlock had walked out of that hospital room.

But it wouldn't matter. Alone, feeling as though his heart was rotting, he wasn't going to get any better. Only his Dom could help him now.

And there it was, John realized, ignoring the tremor in his hand, and gritting his teeth against the ache in his leg. That was the problem, the reason why he couldn't just accept Sherlock's abandonment, and move on with his life. Because he had made up his mind, that day in Mycroft's office, when Sherlock had invited him back to Baker Street. John had made a commitment to himself, that he would not give up on Sherlock. And though he was angry, and he was bitter, and he had meant every furious word he had said to Sherlock in their last two encounters--he did not intend to break that promise.

John could not move on, because he was determined to prove his soulmate wrong.


	13. When You Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection and cliffhangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for how short this one is, I seriously overestimate how much I'll get out of my storyboards. But it is important still! …right? *curls into fetal position*
> 
> Please comment!
> 
> ALSO, it occurred to me that some people like to read with mood music, just as I like to write with it, so I'll add a post-chapter note with my author's soundtrack so far! Woot.

The air in the Diogenes Club was thick with the smell of cigar smoke and old leather. It certainly wasn't a bad smell, and Greg found it fairly relaxing as he leaned back in the armchair in front of Mycroft Holmes' desk.

The man himself entered the office behind him, silently offering him a crystal glass that appeared to contain brandy. Greg accepted it gratefully.

As Mycroft sat down, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. "Care for one?" he asked politely, and Greg shook his head. The only other time he could remember seeing the elder Holmes brother smoking was the first day they'd met. He had come to the police station to collect a much younger, very different Sherlock, who had marked the occasion of the anniversary of their father's death by taking a nearly fatal overdose of cocaine.

Strangely, even such dark and somber circumstances had not made Greg's first impression of Sherlock necessarily a bad one. In truth, he had been vastly impressed from the start by the young man's incredible deductive skills--though of course, he had still had to arrest him. Despite that, though, Greg did not regret meeting the Holmes brothers.

This time around, Mycroft was not his usual put-together self. He looked tired and strained, and clearly took relief from the first drag of his cigarette. His gaze was a touch unfocused as it settled on Greg.

"You are also concerned about him." It was a statement, not a question, but Greg answered it anyway.

"Course I am," he said, taking a sip of the brandy. "But to be honest, it's more because of John."

Mycroft's expression tightened fractionally, but that was the only indication he gave of any strong reaction. "And your concern for John... It's for him as an individual? Or in regards to their bond?" A clipped smile crossed his features. "Or lack thereof."

Greg's mouth twisted with annoyance. "Yeah, about that. Did you know they were living that way?"

The older Dominant raised one eyebrow slightly. "Obviously," he answered softly. "You know Sherlock as well as anyone might. Do you imagine that it would be easy to dissuade him from a course of action, once he has settled on it?" He took another long drag from the cigarette. "I'm frankly relieved I convinced him to take John in at all."

Greg glanced away. "It's a bit hard to see that as a good thing at this point, to be honest," he said quietly.

Mycroft's expression pinched. "Yes," he agreed delicately. "I suppose so." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Is the current living arrangement working out?"

Great shot him a look. "Yes, and you needn't worry about it. I know Sherlock is an inappropriately possessive bastard, but you know better."

The slightest hint of a smirk flickered over Mycroft's face. "Yes," he repeated. "I do. Bond or none, you would know better than to go near him."

The D.I. looked vaguely annoyed, but didn’t comment further on the implication. "It isn't at all fair to John, you know. He's trapped, emotionally, and he doesn't know how to move on."

The older Dom looked troubled. "That is because he, like his mate, does not truly wish to."

Greg huffed a sigh, downing the rest of his brandy. "I don't understand your brother at all."

Mycroft gave him a dry smile. "Very few do." He finished the cigarette, and put it out. "I will try to clarify for you." Leaning back, the elder Holmes steepled his fingers together beneath his chin, and Greg was startled by the unexpected similarity between the two brothers.

Mycroft's expression had become distant, and his voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. "The simple fact of the matter is that my brother does not know how to accept that he has fallen in love." He chuckled at the stunned look on Greg's face. "Indeed."

"People forget that meeting one's mate is not synonymous with falling in love. You have found your perfect partner, and you won't want anyone else so long as they live. If you lose them, of course, you can learn to love again. But they were the one, perfect partner. If there is no bond, however, than both members will be weaker, whether they wanted to make it work or not. Sherlock's work has made him cynical. He fails to realize that even he is still human...and without John, he will die."

With a sigh of mixed resignation and bemusement, Greg stood, discarding the empty glass and burying his hands in his coat pockets. His shoulders were hunched with frustration. “Well, I don’t know what to do that could help them, then.”

He glanced at Mycroft’s hands, still propped beneath his chin, and at the narrow silver band that he wore on his index finger in recognition of his marriage--an unusually intimate step even for a mated pair. Most were content with the bond ceremony, and the wrist cuffs or a collar. “I met her when I was too young,” he admitted suddenly, and Mycroft inclined his head in polite recognition of the confidence. “We married too young, really. I don’t know if that’s the main reason that she left, but it didn’t help things at all. I wasn’t....ready for the commitment.”

The other Dominant shrugged, dropping his right hand to idly twist the wedding band on his left. “And if he had chosen to leap into it prior to the Moriarty incident, Sherlock would have felt the same way, some years from now. As it is...we just have to wait and see. Hopefully he will learn for himself. Before it is too late.”

Greg winced at that possibility, unable to imagine John sinking into any state worse than the silence and depression he was already in. He had never had a sub in drop, or suffering from recent trauma, who was his responsibility like this.

The door opened to admit a third person, a petite brunette woman in casual business attire, carrying her Blackberry in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Greg stepped aside with a polite nod as she rounded the desk, hanging the mug to her husband and giving him a brief kiss before her attention returned to her device. Greg couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made eye contact with the fiery submissive, whose loyalty and attention was completely given to her relationship and service to her mate. He smiled faintly at her devotion.

The elder Holmes fixed his gaze on Greg one last time, even as he absently stroked a finger over Anthea’s wrist cuff, a typical calming gesture for any Dominant. “I do believe he will come to see it, Gregory. We just have to wait, and watch.”

The D.I. nodded, rubbing a hand wearily through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I just hope he doesn’t drive himself mad, first. He won’t rest until he’s found Moriarty.”

Mycroft nodded, clearly seeing that a given. “As he ought to. He may be resistant to say so, but he did accept his mate. And Moriarty has threatened him in the most unforgivable manner possible.” A shadow crossed his face. “There will be hell to pay.”

Greg left on that ominous note, following the maze of dark-paneled hallways until he found the large front door.

As it was opened at his approach, he was startled to see John hobbling up the steps, as quickly as his bad leg and cane would allow him.

The doctor reached Greg and seemed to sag forward, in relief or in fear, Greg wasn’t sure. He thrust his mobile at the Dom, eyes wide and his expression filled with panic.

“Been trying to reach Mycroft, but he won’t answer his mobile,” the sub gasped. “The texts, Greg, I got--from him, from Sher--read the texts!”

Bewildered and more than a little frightened by the obvious terror in his otherwise seemingly unshakable friend, Greg turned the screen on, staring down at the open text message.

**8:23am**

I am sorry for all of the pain I have caused you, John. I truly wish I could have given you what you needed from me. SH.

**8:24am**

Goodbye. SH.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Official" Author's Soundtrack (roughly in chronological order; #1, 2, and 3 are pre relationship, the rest follow from the start of the relationship and/or from the break-up. The character POV is listed, as well as the chapters I would say the song goes well with):
> 
> -"Just Haven't Met You Yet" by Michael Buble (John POV, obviously, Ch 1)  
> -"Kiss Me Fool" by Fefe Dobson (John POV, Ch 3)  
> -"Naturally" by Selena Gomez (John POV, Ch 2-4)  
> -"I Won't Say I'm in Love" from Hercules (Sherlock POV, Ch 5)  
> -"Everything" by Fefe Dobson (John POV, Ch 5-6)  
> -"Flesh" by Simon Curtis (Jim POV…really, this is just a Jim song for me, it's madness, Ch 9)  
> -"Never Been Hurt" by Demi Lovato (John POV, Ch 7-9)  
> -"Always" by Saliva (Sherlock POV [how rare], Ch 10)  
> -"Pieces" by Sum41 (Sherlock POV, Ch 9-10)  
> -"This Love" by The Veronicas (both POV, the chorus would be Sherlock, Ch 10)  
> -"Enemy" by Simon Curtis" (both/mainly John POV, this is a GREAT one, Ch 10-11)  
> -"Untitled" by Simple Plab (PTSD!John POV, Ch 10)  
> -"Desperate" by Decyfer Down (PTSD!John POV, Ch 11-12)  
> -"Just A Dream" by Sam Tsui (both/mainly Sherlock POV, Ch 12-13)  
> -"What Have You Done" by Within Temptation (John to Sherlock, Sherlock to Moriarty POV. Multiple chapters)


	14. Whisper Soft and Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations and climactic conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, have a final confrontation! Yay. SO MANY CANON QUOTES, I love when they slot themselves in like this. <3 Also one super ambiguous reference to my beloved Night Huntress novels...
> 
> And can I just say that Seb is my favorite thing ever to write? Yep. Though this time, I wasn't sure if I was imagining Cam Gigandet or Michael Fassbender….both such pretty men. XD
> 
> Please comment!

It was highly irritating that Lestrade had withheld the letters from him for so long, because Sherlock could have ended his hunt for Moriarty quite some time ago.

He had been correct; the letters were not directed at John personally, nor were they meant as petty intimidation for the police force. They were for him alone--coded requests for a second round, another chance to battle wit and intellect. He had translated them fairly quickly. There was an address, a date and time, and a reminder to come alone and unarmed. Naturally.

He was punctual to the second, arriving at the carport of what appeared to be an abandoned mail warehouse at the appointed time. The cab pulled away, and he found himself alone in front of an unmarked roll-up industrial door.

A smaller door opened to one side, and a young man with fair hair and startling blue eyes stepped out. He was dressed simply, in attire which Sherlock recognized as suitable for a hitman. But it was his eyes that were arresting; they were simultaneously sharp and alert, and utterly dead. This man suffered, working for Moriarty. Submission showed in his movements, which were kept tight and restricted.

Sherlock waited, and after a brief pause, the sub raised a handgun into view--not threatening him directly, but making it clear that he was being taken hostage. He tilted his head, studying the gunman curiously.

“You’re former military,” he noted, and when the only response was an arched eyebrow and a scowl, he chuckled. “Used to be remarkably independent and self-reliant, for a submissive. But he’s taken all of that away from you, hasn’t he?”

The blonde man stepped aside, gesturing into the darkened interior. “Come in, Mr. Holmes. He’s waiting for you.”

Sherlock snorted, but complied, entering the dark hallway and waiting for the other to pass him and lead on. “He must have warned you what I’m like, then.”

Ahead of him, the smaller man shrugged indifferently. “He’s the same way. You get used to being transparent.”

That did make the Dom smile. “Yes, I suppose you would. Why do you stay? He must be hell to work with."

There was an aborted huff of laughter, as though the sub did not know how to express amusement anymore. “He’d applaud your choice of words.”

They passed through a second doorway, which opened into a massive room that, from the stale smells of cardboard and machinery oil, was once used for sealing packages for shipment. Now, it was all but empty; the only furnishings present were a few steel tables and chairs, and an elaborate network of chains hanging from the ceilings, outfitted with the necessary cuffs and levers to provide for dangling bodies. Sherlock smirked.

“Somewhat varied in his approaches to torture, I see.”

The blonde sub glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, and the look in his pale blue eyes was haunted--Sherlock could only imagine how often Moriarty must test and experiment with his devices, and pawns like this one would be perfectly dispensable. His lip curled, wondering again how the sub could bear the mistreatment.

A door across the room opened, and Moriarty himself appeared, dressed impeccably once again, still wearing the black leather gloves. It made Sherlock’s stomach twist, remembering the sight of those covered hands caressing and tormenting John.

Moriarty, for his part, looked insanely delighted, as though he were hosting a holiday dinner that Sherlock had agreed to attend. “Hello, sweetheart,” the Irishman said in greeting, his voice as sing-songy as before.

Sherlock glanced at the submissive, curious whether or not he was going to be treated as a prisoner. The blonde still held the gun, and now he leaned up against one of the tables, aiming it almost boredly at Sherlock, as though to say, ‘Yes, you’re trapped, but do make yourself at home.’

He turned back to Moriarty, slowly removing his own gloves; on some bizarre, overly-emotionally level, he hated even that trivial degree of similarity between them. “I got your message,” he said at last, unsure how else to initiate the game this time.

Moriarty smiled broadly, the expression again twisting his features into something garish and inhuman. “Of course you did,” he praised. “Despite your recent...failures...you really are quite something, darling.”

He strolled forward leisurely, circling Sherlock in a manner that was at once both predatory and curious, examining him as though he were a unique piece in a museum. “Do you know, I used to think you were so beautiful, Sherlock Holmes, simply stunning. You were a creature of such perfect contradictions...logic and violence, reason and fire...as raw and untouchable as I am, myself. Incomparable to any other, truly.”

His voice dropped an octave, and he leaned in close, his lips actually brushing Sherlock’s ear as he spoke, and the taller Dominant shuddered away the slightest degree--even as he focused intently on the words being breathed against his skin.

“We would have been flawless together, you and I.”

Bewildered, Sherlock stepped away, turning just his head to stare at the Irishman in disbelief. “How can you think that? Trite though it may be, the universe does arrange mated pairs...and we are clearly not.” He tried to keep the obvious disgust off his face, but it was a struggle. “Quite aside from our matching Dominant designations...we are utterly incompatible. In every way.”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows, stepping back into Sherlock’s personal space. “What makes you so certain of that? We could set the world on fire, you and I. We would burn the whole place down, and dance in the ashes.”

Sherlock turned away, his eyes settling distractedly on the sub, who had not moved or lowered his gun. “No, we wouldn’t. We are not soulmates.” The acerbity in his own voice startled him.

Moriarty’s tone was utterly scathing as he retorted. “Who gives a shite about that? I locked that nonsense away deep inside when long ago. Being a Dominant is certainly advantageous, and only proper, let’s face it--but having a mate? Well, that’s always been nothing more than a convenience, hardly a necessity.”

Still the focal point of Sherlock’s unfocused stare, the submissive standing at the table visibly flinched at Moriarty’s words. Sherlock frowned, fixing his attention on the blonde. He took in the hunched shoulders, the pain flashing brokenly from behind otherwise soulless eyes, and the way his hand trembled as it clutched the weapon, before he seemed to re-center himself, his gaze remaining locked on the two Dominants, awaiting orders.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Beneath the parted v-neck collar of the sub’s henley shirt, he had suddenly realized that there were bruises visible, the imprint of hands pressing and pinching the tender flesh of his chest, and round, shining scars where cigarettes had been extinguished on the man’s skin. No submissive would endure such abuse just for a paycheck.

His voice was incredulous. “He’s your--you’re his mate, aren’t you?” This he directed at the sub, but it was Moriarty who responded, after casting a disparaging glance at the blonde.

“Yes...Seb needs me for his emotional and physical survival, the miserable puppy. Poor dear is completely whipped, and it makes him ever so handy.” Meandering over to the blonde, Moriarty nudged until he could slip behind him, wrapping an arm around his mate’s waist while ensuring Seb kept the gun trained on Sherlock.

The Irishman’s fathomless black eyes settled back on Sherlock, even as he began idly caressing Seb’s stomach through the grey fabric of his shirt. “It is nice to have a loyal pet, isn’t it, darling?” He mouthed along the side of the blonde’s neck, still staring at his fellow Dom, and Sherlock felt his expression twist with revulsion, unsure of the game they were playing at now. He did, however, see now that it was this dynamic that caused the deadness in Seb’s gaze; the sub had surrendered his mind to the madman who owned him, and it had left him broken. But he was not completely an empty shell, yet; there was sadness there, as though he knew that there was more, out there, and he longed for it--but he did not resist or withdraw from the cold, unfeeling touch of his Dom.

Moriarty let his fingers slip beneath the waistband of the sub’s trousers, provoking an automatic--but clearly unhappy--moan of arousal from the blonde, and Sherlock finally snapped.

There was more anger in his voice than even he expected, making it a sharp whip that lashed through the air between them, filled with reprimand. “How can you treat your submissive--your soulmate--this way? He’s your partner--you are responsible for his happiness!”

Moriarty laughed cruelly, yanking his hand free--Seb whimpered in protest, even as he flushed in shame at the sound--and stepped forward, yanking the sub forward with him. With an almost lazy shove, he forced the man to his knees, and Sherlock was horrified by the way the man managed to fulfill both his roles; he kept the gun steadily trained on Sherlock, while allowing his Dom to grip his hair with white-knuckled, cruel fingers. Moriarty pressed his face against his own thigh, a degrading and humiliating position for the sub.

“And are you responsible for your mate’s ‘happiness,’ Sherlock?” His voice was gleeful, taunting, and Sherlock was filled with more hatred than he had ever experienced in his life. “Were you responsible for how happy he clearly is now, alone, struggling with trauma and subdrop and being unwanted by his own fuckin’ mate?”

Sherlock recoiled from the truth in the words, and Moriarty laughed again, high and vindictive. “Oh yes, you’re just a model of good Dominance, aren’t you, love? The epitome of a loving and protective mate. If only I could do so well as you have, keeping your pet loyally by your side--oh wait,” he added scornfully, twisting Seb’s hair and eliciting a soft yelp of pleading--which, to Sherlock’s disgust, clearly only pleased him more, judging from the erection he was now rubbing the sub’s cheek against. Seb, disturbingly, accepted the savage dominance without protest, letting himself be used for such an empty, heartless demonstration of control.

The Moriarty settled his gaze back on Sherlock’s face, and he paused, even his hand on Seb’s head going still. His dark eyes narrowed, taking in Sherlock’s tense stance, his clenched fists, and the dismay and grief in his eyes as he stared at Seb.

“Oh,” the Irishman breathed, and nothing had ever alarmed Sherlock as much as the manic light that sparked in those bottomless black eyes. “Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me...” Pushing Seb away, the smaller Dom moved closer to Sherlock, absorbing every detail of Sherlock’s stricken expression. “Not all just posturing and ruffled feathers, was it? Our last little encounter...not just wounded pride and territorial shite, hm?” A look of pure, mocking excitement filled his face. “You really do have feelings for that poor, trampled bastard, don’t you.” He stepped back, sliding his hands into his pockets and surveying Sherlock with a horrific, warped satisfaction. “You love him.”

Sherlock wanted to tune him out, to ignore all of this, and he fixed his gaze helplessly on the still-kneeling submissive behind Moriarty. Seb’s gaze flickered up to meet his, then dropped again, hopeless and frighteningly sympathetic. Moriarty suddenly laughed.

“And how does it feel, then, seeing how very broken he is? Not just by me, mind you. You did your fair share of damage to the sad little sub, that poor cunt that you would claim to love, didn’t you? Left him alone with the dark memories of his magical time with me--oh, how that must just burn in your veins, love, knowing that you’ve left him to rot with the recollection of my hands on him, my fingers inside and out, rubbing and fucking and ripping him! Is that why you broke his bruised and battered little heart in that hospital, and left him to wallow in another man’s home? Because he’d become damaged goods, because I fucked him over so well? I don’t blame you, he certainly did become next to useless after all that. I wouldn’t bother fucking that again.”

Seeing Sherlock flinch again, Moriarty’s grin widened, delighted to have struck a nerve. He glided forward, pacing around Sherlock like a shark around its bleeding target, or a spider around a trapped and dying insect.

“You know, I still haven’t properly finished with him, not really. Especially now that I know you’ve gone and wasted your time getting all _sentimental_ about him--oh Sherlock, when will you _learn_? Sentiment is a chemical defect, my darling, and it is found only on the _losing_ side.” He leaned in close, his voice dropping conspiratorily. “And I will watch it bleed out of your burning, broken heart, Sherlock Holmes. I will tear that useless shite out of you, when I tear out his still-beating heart, and feed it to you.”

Sherlock was shaking, his whole body cold and frozen with horror and disgust at the utter depravity of the other Dom’s mind. “Why,” he asked hoarsely, “Why did you pursue him then? If you were so repulsed by him, by his need for--for sentiment?”

Moriarty’s face twisted with disgust, and there was nothing but condescension in his voice as he replied. “I had to test your bond, of course. Had to see how easy it would be to shatter it, how vulnerable he was to someone slithering in and snatching you right out of his grubby little paws. Had to determine how easily I could cut him away from you, and claim you for myself.”

As the Irishman spoke, Sherlock noticed the misery that flooded Seb’s face behind him. The submissive had not lowered the weapon, obeying his master’s commands perfectly, but he looked ready to break into tears. Sherlock could hardly imagine the pain the man was feeling, listening to his mate describe his fixation with another right in front of him--but Seb was powerless. A submissive couldn’t to argue if their Dom wanted to be shared. It was of course possible to ask for monogamy, but that was just a request--and clearly, Seb would get no such kindness from his Dom.

Sherlock’s voice was cold and hard, his gaze still settled on the heartbroken sub, even as he addressed the words to Moriarty. “You underestimate the power of combining sentiment with logic. The two are potent together.” He paused, and nodded at Seb as the sub glanced at him, causing him to keep his head raised slightly, just enough to hold Sherlock’s gaze. “You deserve better,” he told the blonde gently, his voice far softer as he spoke these words. He saw the flare of wonder and disbelief that filled the man’s eyes.

Moriarty stepped between them, cutting off their eye contact, and his face was twisted with fury at Sherlock’s words. “You’re _useless_ to me now,” he spat, staring at Sherlock with such intense and sudden detestation that Sherlock took an uneasy step away, regaining his line of sight to Seb.

Moriarty wasn’t finished. “I thought you were something more, Sherlock, something untouchable and untarnished by the utter filth and taint of _ordinary_ people. And yet you’ve fallen, you’ve become one of them, corrupted and weak and foul.” His eyes flashed as he turned away from Sherlock. “Disgusting.” Pulling out a mobile, he raised it into view. “I’m going to have your little submissive collected and brought here, you know. I was going to let you watch, but, well, you’ve just pissed me off far too much. So I’ll lock you away somewhere. And then I am going to destroy him, piece by piece, far more thoroughly than my little games from before ever did. And I’ll film every minute, don’t you worry.” His face lit maliciously. “I want you to enjoy every second of it, particularly when I make him scream out how much he despises you for letting me take him.” Raw bloodlust shone in the madman’s eyes. “He will hate the very sound of your name by the time I am done with him.”

Well, that was enough of that.

In three strides he had crossed around Moriarty, reaching Seb’s side before the sub seemed to register that he had moved. His hand came down on the inside of the blonde’s elbow, avoiding hurting him while still driving his hand upwards, and he easily tugged the gun from the shocked man’s slackened grasp. Without missing a beat, he growled, “ _Down_ ,” relieved when Seb instinctively caved to the fierce dominance in his voice and hunched forward into a crouch.

Spinning smoothly on his heel, Sherlock leveled the gun at Moriarty, whose astonished expression betrayed his lack of foresight for this possible turn of events.

Sherlock heard the venom in his own voice, the ice cold calm and hatred that permeated his entire being and emerged in the low, damning declaration that he uttered at his enemy.

“You will _never_ harm my mate again.”

With a perfectly steady hand, Sherlock fired.


	15. Oh Baby, Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ding dong, the witch is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really, truly sorry, because when I finished this, I looked it over and point blank--it is a filler. I was genuinely tempted to go ahead and merge the next chapter with this one, but I wanted to make sure I updated today, so I'm going ahead. I will try to write chapter 16 tonight! We're so near the end, folks.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this isn't too disappointing. I found it rather cathartic, myself. Please comment! You've no idea how much it makes my day.

John limped toward the front doors of the Met, pointedly ignoring the overly-sympathetic glances shot his direction by passers-by, or the way that people made too wide a berth around him, giving him too much space on the path. The gimp leg, his hunched shoulder, and the damned cane were glaring neon signs, labeling him as broken, or needing their pity.

He was neither, and it pissed him off almost as much as being sent home earlier, when Greg had taken his mobile and ordered him to leave the search to them. Fuckers. He knew no one thought he should have anything to do with Sherlock right now, but he _had_ to know if the Dom was safe, for God’s sake. How could they not understand that?

As he climbed the steps--Greg had finally, mercifully, called him and said he could come in; that they had found Sherlock, he was alive and safe, he was brought in--John was startled to see the man himself emerge from the station. He was being escorted to a waiting car by Anthea, who (naturally) had her phone in hand as she walked him out.

John froze, staring hard at his mate. Sherlock looked exhausted, but unharmed, thank God. There was tension in his shoulders and the way his hands flexed into fists at his sides--but his eyes were the worst part. They were dark and sad, as if he had lost something valuable.

And then Sherlock saw him, and his whole body jerked as he ground to a halt, making Anthea run into him with a startled noise. The Dom stared at him almost hungrily, and for a moment John was unnerved by it. And then, by some joke of biological cruelty, he felt the heat surge between them, the link that neither had really made an effort to sever, and he swayed on his feet--wanting to run to Sherlock, yet hating the very sight of him. He was so desperate for that look to mean something, for Sherlock to regret the terrible choice he had made--but John could not afford the heartache he would suffer if it was not so. It would crush him to reach out, only to be rejected again.

There was a flash of something bleak and indefinable in Sherlock’s gaze, a kind of grief that John had never seen in any Dom’s face before. He watched in surprise as Sherlock took a small, hesitant step toward him--and then Anthea halted him with a firm hand on his arm, leaning in to speak softly to the Dom, and he seemed to deflate at the words.

Whatever the sub had said, it clearly persuaded the younger Holmes brother not to try; as John watched, his gaze hardening, Sherlock slowly turned away, disappearing into the waiting car.

Just before following the Dom, Anthea glanced back at John over her shoulder. He nodded politely--he didn’t owe the other submissive any discourtesy--and she nodded back, before jerking her head at the doors. Huffing in bemusement, John obeyed the unspoken command to go ahead.

Inside, he found Greg waiting for him at the dispatch desk, a file in his hand. His face was creased with exhaustion, and John could only imagine the hell he’d gone through to track down Sherlock’s location. John took a breath, opening his mouth to ask what the bloody hell Sherlock’s “goodbye” text had been about.

Greg cut him off before he spoke. “James Moriarty is dead,” he told him bluntly.

John reeled back a step, genuinely taken aback by the sheer force of emotion that those words provoked in him. Relief, of course, but that was only a minor part of it. He stared unseeingly at his friend as he tried to process the possibility that his darkest, seemingly endless nightmare was over; that the man who had so utterly dehumanized, violated, and shattered his life and sense of safety was gone.

“The body is down in the morgue, if you need the affirmation,” Greg added, giving him a gentle smile. “Perfectly normal to.”

John shook his head, feeling numb. “No,” he murmured, “No, I definitely trust you on this. What--how’d he die? What happened?”

Greg pursed his lips, looking him over with concern--but John gave him one hard glance, and the D.I. knew better than to coddle the doctor.

“Sherlock tracked him down,” he said instead, gesturing for John to follow him into his office. John entered the small room and sank down into a familiar chair, vaguely noticing that it did smell of Sherlock, from the number of times--including just before he’d arrived--that the consulting detective had sat here, his pheromones filling the space around him with his strong, assertive scent. John shivered slightly.

“Yeah...” Greg sank into his desk chair, tossing the file in front of John. “He found Moriarty, and his mate.” John’s head jerked up in shock, his expression indicating his disbelief, and Greg chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah, we felt the same. Poor bastard was an absolute wreck.”

John’s voice still betrayed his incredulity at the possibility that the universe would give Jim Moriarty--of all people--a mate. “Well, yeah--his Dom was a psychopath. How--how did he still have him? Why wasn’t he reported for sub abuse, or something?” Unintentionally, John’s gaze darted through the glass window to where he could see Anderson, the submissive forensics expert who constantly pissed off Sherlock--and, well, most Doms--but who had somehow managed to find peace with Sergeant Donovan. He had never heard the sub’s whole story, but he knew that Anderson was alone now because his soulmate had abused him until he was reported.

Greg’s voice was weary, and filled with regret. “We should have known about him, yes. There are actually a shitload of files on Seb Moran, hospitalized for sub abuse and sexual abuse and God knows what else. He took nothing but shit from Moriarty. But he never named his abuser--hell, Moriarty never cuffed or collared him, so even though they had actually entered their bond, there was no evidence that he was ever with his soulmate. Moran has been released, though...he isn’t a threat,” Greg added gently, at John’s startled expression. “He’s just a broken down kid, really. Former military, only real record against him is the fucked up shit Moriarty made him do, and he just couldn’t fight it--he needed his Dom too much. He’s suffering right now--his soulmate bond was broken violently, right in front of him, and he’s got plenty of post-traumatic stress of his own...he’s going to need some recovery time. Don’t worry about him, alright?”

John shrugged, nodded, even though inside he was quite worried; either the sub was lying, and would become an extension of the Moriarty threat--or he was truly a victim, and John knew firsthand how much there was to recover from after Jim Moriarty had his hands on you.

Absently, John flipped open the file in front of him, then jumped when he saw the photo of the submissive in question. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and when Greg raised a questioning eyebrow, John scowled at the picture. “He really did have him mind-fucked. That’s the one that kept a gun on me when Moriarty had me in the basement. I mean, I could see the bastard was in a bad way, but still--his _mate_ , fuck.”

Greg looked pained, leaning over to close the folder. “I’m sorry, John.”

The doctor leaned back, gripping his cane tightly as he tried to orient his thoughts. “Right--well--right. Um, how did--how did Moriarty end up in the morgue, then?”

Greg’s mouth twisted, clearly wanting to press the issue about how this was affecting John, but he respected the sub’s insistent strength. Another file was offered, but John waved it away, just wanting to hear the details out loud.

“Well, what do you expect--Sherlock shot him.” Greg actually laughed at the look on John’s face, even though there was nothing really humorous about it. “I know, mate, but that man is unstoppable when he’s brassed off. Disarmed Moran and shot Moriarty at point-blank range, twice. Once in the chest, then a double tap to the head.” He saw John flinch, and raised his hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry, John. You alright?”

At the sub’s nod and ‘go on’ wave, Greg continued. “Right, well, that was that. Shot him dead. He’s not being charged, though, because it was in defense of his mate.” He saw the indignation that flashed across John’s face and he chuckled, walking around the desk to lean against it and nudge John’s knee lightly with his own, instinctively using his Dominant confidence to calm the submissive down.

“Like it or not, mate, he did this for your sake. His testimony and Moran’s witness statements line up; Moriarty said he intended to come after you again, apparently he described--well,” Greg cut off, flushing, and John bit down on his tongue. He could imagine the horrors in store for him that Moriarty would have described.

“Anyway,” Greg muttered in conclusion. “He threatened you clearly. And Sherlock disarmed his sub, spoke in your defense, and shot him.” He smiled slightly. “You‘re still pissed at him, and you’re more than right to be, but to be honest John--that man finally did right by you today. That’s for damn certain.”

John clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to respond to that. He was grateful, and that was hard to know how to deal with; he felt as if he might be safe again at last, and that was only thanks to the mate who had walked out on him. He did not know how to feel.

“That it, then?” he asked softly, a distant part of him remembering his first ever encounter with Sherlock as he spoke the words. “It’s...it’s all over?”

Greg shrugged. “More or less, I reckon. Nothing more to it. Moriarty is dead, Moran has no interest in further connection to him, and you’re safe now. Anything else is up to you.” Crossing around the desk, the D.I. paused, then seemed to make a decision. “One more thing, John.”

As the sub looked at him expectantly, he pulled an envelope out of his inner coat pocket, raising it so that John could see his own name printed on it, in beautiful, painfully familiar handwriting. His stomach plummeted.

“Sherlock left this for you, told me he knew I’d see you next and it would be helpful to you if you read it. I...” He paused, then sighed, holding it out. “I told him I’d leave it up to you.”

There had been in tremor in John’s hand for months now, one that he might never get rid of. But his hand shook far more now, reaching for that letter, than it ever would from trauma. He left the office without a word, sinking down onto the bench in the lobby, and opened the envelope with trembling fingers.


	16. Meet Me in the Pouring Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another ridiculously short one, I am deeply sorry. I would just combine it with the last, but hey; fun cut-off points. Enjoy!
> 
> No but for serious, once it's posted, I am ashamed of the short length. Please forgive me. And comment.
> 
> AND hey, maybe I'll even write up the super sappy, unnaturally short epilogue by tomorrow for Christmas Eve!

_...nothing but regret for what he’s done._

_I would offer to say this in person, but...they told me it’s better I don’t come back to London for a while. But that’s fine with me, I think. I’m going to stay in a home...hm. That sounds rather juvenile. I’ll be in the care of a Domme called Adler, she takes in subs whose mates have died, or been charged with abuse. Call it rehab, I guess._

_Well...all this to say--thank you, Mr. Holmes. I wish I had met you under happier circumstances, and God knows, I wish I could find the words to apologize for what he did to your mate. All the best to you both._

  
_Sebastian Moran_  

Sherlock refolded the letter that Greg had passed along, smiling to himself. Despite the obvious reasons he had to resent or even hate the hurting sub, he found himself pleased for Seb’s chance at recovery. He could heal from the physical and psychological abuse he had suffered, and like all subs who lost their mates while they were still young, he could move on. Perhaps he would even find a Dominant who would take proper care of him.

Reclining back in his chair, Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his fingers drumming distractedly on the arm. The restlessness that had taken root the very instant he had pulled the trigger in that warehouse had not abated, as he had hoped; far from it, it only increased as the days drifted on. Lestrade had talked at him about shock and manic mood swings, but he hadn’t paid much mind, as usual.

All that he could think of was the look on John’s face, so many months ago, after he had shot that damn cabbie to protect Sherlock. Killing to save one’s mate was in a category all its own. If he was honest, the tension he felt was completely unrelated to Moriarty’s death. It was anticipatory, rather than remorseful. 

He was snatching up his mobile before he’d made a conscious decision, hitting redial and waiting through one and a half rings before it was picked up.

“Yes, he came in. Yes, he got your letter. Didn’t say a word, just took it and left. Just bloody _wait_ for him, you prat.” That said, Lestrade hung up.

Sherlock might have smiled, but he didn’t feel entirely aware of his face anymore.

He called the next name listed under his recent calls. This time he got through two rings before it was picked up. “Sherlock,” his brother said in greeting, his voice simultaneously somber and kind. “What is worrying you?”

The younger Dominant sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I’m not worried,” he retorted waspishly, but he didn’t know what to say after that. “I just...” He glanced over at the cold and empty armchair across from him, and scowled. “Fuck.”

Mycroft hummed softly, whether in sympathy or condescension, who could say. “I know it’s distressing, not knowing how he’ll respond to your letter,” he offered. Sherlock remained silent, knowing that right now, Mycroft was likely the only one who could keep up with the hurricane going on in his mind.

“If it’s at all reassuring, he has not gone to anyone else seeking sanctuary. Detective Inspector Lestrade informed me that he had moved his things out before the end of the day, following word of Moriarty’s...elimination. I spoke with Clara Watson, who said that he has neither stopped by, nor called his sister for help. He has not even contacted me, though he did flip off the CCTV camera outside the Met as he was leaving--presumably to collect his possessions from Lestrade’s flat.”

As Mycroft paused, Sherlock allowed himself a real, genuine smile. The mental image of John so efficiently communicating that he did not need interference from the elder Holmes was unexpectedly comforting.

He pressed the tips of his fingers to his temple, wishing it were not utterly illogical to scream or shout as an expression of all this ridiculous pent-up emotion. “How do I endure this?” he finally asked, sounding small and frustrated.

Mycroft’s voice was uncharacteristically kind. “John is your soulmate, Sherlock. He is your missing part...he is passion where you are rationality, he is thunder where you are lightning.” There was a pause, and Sherlock couldn’t refrain from snorting out loud. He heard the soft huff of his brother also laughing, recognizing how that sounded.

“You see my point, I assume,” the older Dom said, still chuckling. “Just...wait for him, Sherlock. It will be alright.”

He sighed again, nodding into the quiet of the empty flat. The restlessness had faded to white noise.

He ended the call and set his mobile aside, reaching for his violin and strumming absently, playing out a few notes from a song he remembered John enjoying.

Outside 221B, it began to rain.

Some time later, his phone chirped with a new text. For a few seconds, he did not register the sound of the low-volume chime. Then the glow from the lit screen caught his eye and he glanced at it absently, stiffening when he saw John’s name blinking across the bar at the center. Slowly he lowered the instrument, lifting the phone with similar reverence.

**7:15pm**

_If you meant it, you get one chance. If you have any doubts or second thoughts, then do not come. But if you were serious, drop everything now, and come meet me in the rain. I’m right outside._

The phone thudded onto the leather chair as Sherlock bolted for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For funsies, here's the fabulous fan video that made me think of that utterly terrible line for Mycroft, using the song "Naturally" by Selena Gomez: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbibwqL5_AI


	17. I See Sparks Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO MUCH FLUFF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS!
> 
> Oof, bittersweet moment. This story had its claws in my brain for so long. And now…now it's…done…and it feels so different than I expected. Man.
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy. Please comment. I hope you all loved this story like I did!

 

**_My dearest John,_ **

Sherlock had never clattered so gracelessly down the stairs in his life, even during a case. He could hear Mrs. Hudson through the open door of her flat, music playing over the patter of rain as she bustled about cooking a late supper. He heard her call out at the racket he made as he thudded to a halt in the foyer, saying his name in a questioning manner.

 

**_I owe you a thousand apologies, but I don’t really know how to begin._ **

He didn’t answer, but still paused to wait. After a heartbeat, she poked her head out of the doorway, and when she saw the look on his face, she smiled. “He’s coming back, isn’t he?” she asked in her usual knowing way.

Sherlock did not know how to reply. He offered her a hopeful smile, then turned toward the front door, grabbing an umbrella from the stand by the door. He didn’t bother opening it, though, as he stepped into the dismal drizzle outside.

 

**_When I left you in the hospital, I implied that my work could never accommodate having a second person sharing in my life._ **

John was there as he’d said, standing a few yards away from the door to 221, leaning against the wrought iron fence that lined the pavement. His cane was in hand, but he seemed even less aware of than before. His gaze was fixed on Sherlock.

 

**_I could not have been more wrong._ **

Sherlock took a few hesitant steps forward, feeling the rain dripping down the back of his collar. Distantly he thought to use the umbrella, but he did not move to open it. If John was going to stand here getting soaked, giving him one shot at fixing this, then he could stand a little water.

 

**_I cannot say whether or not it was right to put distance between us while I hunted Moriarty. I know the damage I did to you by walking away, and I have no right to ask your forgiveness for that. But I am going to, anyway. Because I never should have left you, John._ **

There was only a few feet left between them, and Sherlock stopped, knowing better than to assume everything was just going to work out perfectly. John studied him closely, his eyes guarded.

“I read your letter,” he said at last, and Sherlock wished he could smile at him, wished he could embrace him or communicate all that he was feeling with just a touch or a look.

 

**_I wish I could prove to you somehow that I truly mean that; that I know, despite all reason and sense telling me that what I did was to protect you..still, I know that it was wrong. You had committed to the danger and the excitement and the risk, just as much as you were willing to commit to me, as a lover. I had no right to take your free will and make the decision for you._ **

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said out loud. He had a suspicion that he might actually cry, standing here gazing at his wounded and distrusting mate, and if that proved true, he would be grateful for the rain. At John’s surprised expression, he pressed on. “I was living under a terrible misconception,” he explained. “I always believed that letting a soulmate in would mean allowing a weakness--one that could destroy someone like me. Even Mycroft, for all that he is not so different from me--” John smirked, and Sherlock felt a surge of warmth at that little glimpse of his mate’s former spark. “--even Mycroft is vulnerable, when Anthea is concerned. He would never say so, but she could easily be used to hurt him.”

 

_**You are a far better man than I am, John Watson. I certainly don’t deserve another opportunity with you.** _

“I didn’t realize,” he went on slowly, sounding the words out carefully. These were much more powerful sentiments than he knew what to do with. John raised an eyebrow, waiting, and Sherlock pushed himself to speak. “I didn’t realize that it was about love, not...not being exposed, but being safe. Love is strength, and that’s what you are. What you were offering me.”

 

_**I really don’t have the right to ask your forgiveness. The other day I told you I missed you, and you walked away--and if that is to be your response again, I cannot begrudge you for it. But I want to prove myself, John. I want to prove that I can be enough for you. Yes, you’re going to frown at that, you thought you were proving something to me. But obviously not; obviously, I’m the idiot. And I will do whatever I have to in order to regain your trust.** _

John’s whole body was rigid with tension, and his voice was low and hot. “What the hell does that mean, Sherlock?”

 

_**And your love.** _

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, long enough that he saw John begin to shake, begin to turn away in frustration. His voice was choked when he replied. “I know now,” he got out. “I know the difference, between finding your soulmate, and--and falling in love.”

 

_**Will you let me do that, John? Come home, please.** _

John arched an eyebrow, staring so intently at the Dom that he felt utterly eviscerated, as if the sub could see through him and read his very soul. “You have to actually say the words, Sherlock, I’m not here to play guessing games.”

 

_**Come home, and let me prove that I truly can be the mate you deserved from the moment you entered that lab and our eyes met. Let** _ **me** _**win** _ **you** _**over, this time.** _

Sherlock found himself starting to smile. He allowed a note of irritability to enter his voice, as though it were a burden rather than a pleasure to finally tell John. “Fine,” he said, his waspish tone wasted when he was fighting a smirk. But it didn’t matter, because John was beginning to smile back. “I love you, John. Please, come home.”

 

_**I will wait for your answer.** _

John suddenly laughed, and the sound was like a physical caress, a lover’s touch that Sherlock had not realized how badly he was missing. It nearly made his knees buckle as John stepped nearer, closing the gap between them.

 

_**Love,** _

“Was that as painful as you wasted so much time fearing it would be?” John’s voice was teasing, his eyes lighter and more forgiving than Sherlock had any right to ask for, but only a fool would argue with this. And he would never be such an idiot again.

 

_**your mate.** _

Sherlock surrendered to the need humming through his blood, leaning forward and kissing John fiercely.

It had been so long, months that felt like years, since the last time he’d felt this. Sherlock heard the unseemly moan that slipped from him at the press of his mate’s lips, but he couldn’t complain as he felt John smile against his mouth. The Dominant was trying to keep himself in check; this was hardly a trivial reunion, after all that John had suffered. Sherlock could not bear the thought of pushing too hard, too fast, and triggering any memories of John’s recent traumas.

The sub withdrew, his eyes searching his mate’s. What he saw seemed to amuse him. “Sherlock,” he murmured. “Don’t. You don’t have to hold back. You abandoned me, and that nearly killed me. But,” he added, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and moving it to press against his side, where Sherlock could feel the crinkling outline of his own letter, folded and shoved into John’s coat pocket. “You asked for my forgiveness, and you admitted how bloody stupid you were,” he said with a smile. Sherlock nodded emphatically, and John chuckled again, his eyes flickering across his mate’s face.

“Then you’re forgiven,” he said simply. “I want us back, Sherlock, what we had--and more. Can we have more, now?” His eyes were so beseeching, so full of need. “Please?”

Heat surged through Sherlock, relief and desire and love-- _God, what a feeling that was_ \--and he nodded, throat tight, tipping his forehead to rest again John’s. “More,” he echoed. “Yes. We can have it all. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

John leaned up to kiss him, nipping gently at his bottom lip. “Then stop talking and start showing me ‘more,’ you bloody brilliant moron.” Their hands found one another’s, fingers clutching as the rain began to fall a bit more heavily, making them draw more snugly together against the chill. “I’ll heal with time, and care, and you’re going to help me along, aren’t you?”

The answering kiss was a little more intense, tongues sliding and hands grasping, rain making their skin cool and slick, and doing nothing to lessen the heat rising between them as Sherlock pressed closer, needing to feel connection like he never had before.

John broke the kiss first, turning his face to gasp for air as Sherlock continued to hold him tightly, kissing his cheeks and eyelids and forehead with a desperation he did not know how to slow down. The sub’s voice was breathless with laughter. “Sherlock, we’re outside in the rain. Let’s, ah, let’s take this upstairs, shall we?”

The Dom drew back, staring at him hopefully. He didn’t want--

“Stop over-thinking it,” John whispered. “I know you’re worried, and I’m glad you care about what I went through. But this is what should have happened right after, if you weren’t such a bloody idiot. You would have brought me home, and let me cling to you until things made sense again. So let me do this my way, alright?"

Sherlock kissed him again, heart soaring as the kiss was returned just as enthusiastically. He let John guide him backwards and sideways, to the door, and they stumbled inside together, lips never breaking contact.

 

* * *

Greg must’ve gotten too worried, at last, because he phoned John’s mobile sometime around 11 that night. It was Sherlock who grabbed it off the bedside table, his other hand reaching up to grasp the bars of the headboard for some kind of stability as he read the screen. He snorted. “Shall I answer it for you?”

John opened his eyes, tilting his face back down to stare at his lover without breaking his pace. Their hips continued to make obscene slapping noises against each other as he rode Sherlock, hands pressed to his chest as if to restrain him. Sex wasn’t the problem, he’d told Sherlock quietly as they lay curled in bed together that evening. He wasn’t afraid to touch or be touched, but he was scared of suddenly feeling trapped, or bound.

So Sherlock had tugged the sub on top of himself, arching up to press a kiss to the exposed line of his throat, and murmured that he could do the trapping, then.

And God, had he ever. This was what John had needed, to feel that he had the power, for now. He had stripped his Dom down, teased and tormented him until it was Sherlock begging for once--and then John had mounted him, and taken them away.

There was nothing more to be said about the time apart, or the scars and stitches still lingering on John’s flesh in testimony to what he had endured. The cane lay forgotten, somewhere on the floor with their clothes. All that mattered was the two of them, skin and breath and touches so tender that neither could really think straight, beyond murmured repetitions of “ _I love you_ ,” and “ _I know_.”

John‘s eyes were unfocused as he stared at the phone in confusion. “Hm?”

Snorting, Sherlock hit the accept key. “Lestrade,” he greeted, not bothering to disguise his panting breaths. John suddenly gasped, and Sherlock smirked as he realized that he had found the perfect angle to strike the sub’s prostate--so he did it again, relishing his mate’s pleasured cries.

Lestrade sounded half pleased, half furious, as usual. “Bloody hell, you wanker, I told you not to do this to me again--”

“May I point out that you phoned us?” Sherlock said drily, and he reached for John’s hand on his chest, entwining his fingers with his sub’s. John seemed completely unaware of the phone conversation taking place underneath him, arching his back and clinging to Sherlock’s hand as he rode him faster, beginning to whimper as the pleasure washed through him.

“Well, glad to hear that’s all working out,” the D.I. said tartly, and Sherlock smiled to himself, savoring the sight of his mate writhing in ecstasy over him. “As am I,” he murmured, tugging John down for a kiss, moaning into his mouth when the submissive stiffened as his orgasm swept through him. John collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest, clinging to him and muttering affirmations of love in the aftershocks.

“Oh, and Lestrade?” Sherlock smiled as the other Dom cursed at him affectionately, then asked what else he could possibly need.

“If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I think I speak for John as well when I say we’d be honored if you would be our second witness--Hm? Oh, Mycroft of course--at our bonding ceremony.”

Lestrade startled to splutter a reply, sounding delighted and flustered and typical, but Sherlock was forced to hang up and let the phone fall from his hand, as John’s attack of reinvigorated kisses distracted him thoroughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter filled out nicely because per request, I decided to incorporate Sherlock's letter--which wouldn't have appeared otherwise, I'm sorry to say. AND it apparently needed to end in some smuttiness. This wasn't as explicit as usual…sorry… XD
> 
> Also, survey says--
> 
> I'm kind of torn, do y'all want my serial killer!AU Johnlock story next, or my Destiel college!AU? I'm guessing the Johnlock.


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